Page 51 of The Russian's Forced Bride
And even if it was love, it was a twisted type. But at least I knew I cared deeply for him. I wasn’t sure if the feeling was mutual, though, and that bugged me.
Minutes turned to hours as I patiently waited for Rafael to come home so I could break the news of my pregnancy to him. The test results remained clutched in my hands as my eyes started to droop slowly, my consciousness drifting.
Right after, my phone began to buzz erratically on the coffee table in front of me. Weakly, I reached out to grab the phone, my heart flipping when Rafael’s name flashed across the screen.
I wasted no time answering, but my joy was short-lived.
“Rafael’s been in an accident,” the voice, heavy with a familiar Russian accent, claimed, and my face turned deadly pale.
I breathed out shakily, my stomach twisting. “What? How? Where?”
“I’m headed to the hospital, Mrs. Kamarov. I’ll send you the details soon. Please, come as fast as you can.”
Then the line went static and dead.
A part of me wanted to wave it off as a silly prank call or a trap, but it came from Rafael’s phone. Not just anyone could have access to it.
At that point, it clicked. Rafael always moved with a man some years younger than him. They shared a similar scar ontheir faces, and though I had never directly conversed with him, my gut knew he had been the one to place the call.
There was no denying it. Rafael was really in trouble.
Chapter 17 – Rafael
Hospitals were an entryway to death. I could never see it as anything other than that, but somehow, I always survived my visits to one. The stench of death couldn’t be mistaken, as it hovered over the hospital like a cloud, and from behind the closed doors of my room, sobs could be heard echoing in the halls—a sign that a loved one had passed.
If I had died, I imagined Arlette would’ve been the one crying uncontrollably, and as sick as it sounded in my head, the thought of her crying for me made me feel like my life was earned.
To know that I had someone waiting for me to return home to them. That was why I made sure I wouldn’t die or fall victim to Joaquin’s foolish schemes.
The whitewashed walls of the hospital seemed to enclose me, making me feel claustrophobic, despite the room being large enough to fit my entire office. My head buzzed loudly as the beeping monitor beside me continued to ring out, and I could only curse in annoyance as I leaned against the hospital bed’s headboard.
There was a dull ache of pain resonating around my body, as I had been injured on my head, which had now been bandaged with a clean wrap—a small patch of blood clearly visible to Arlette and Maxim, who sat by my bedside. They had just stepped in when the nurse finished wrapping my head up and handed me an Advil to help relieve the ache.
Arlette’s eyes were wide with panic as her gaze skimmed over my body, and her face grew paler by the second, while Maxim stood by her side, arms crossed, and his mood darkened. He had been with me when we were knocked off the road by a car from behind. Whomever Joaquin had sent had strategicallypushed toward where I was seated, so that when the car tumbled over, I sustained the most injuries.
“How did this happen?” Arlette choked out, holding back tears and grabbing a fistful of the dress that clung to her pale skin.
I sighed, vexed that Maxim had called Arlette without my permission, informing her that I had been involved in an accident. It was the first time he had used his knowledge of my phone’s passcode without my permission, and I was certain that if I weren’t temporarily bedridden, I would’ve punched him in the face.
“My car got knocked over. Nothing serious. Why don’t you go home? You look tired.” I reached out my hand to hold hers, but she swatted it away, her face reddening in anger.
This was Joaquin’s retaliation that I had been expecting. A bold move which, honestly, made me feel like laughing out loud at how pathetic the bastard actually was.
But Arlette looked like she was already scared out of her mind, so I couldn’t exactly laugh while I was all bandaged up.
“Go home?” she spat. “How could you ask me to do that? How could you ask me to go home when you’re in this state?”
I wanted to remind her that I was a part of the Bratva, not some broken man who needed to be looked after. I had survived way worse. In my thirty-eight years of living, I’d been stabbed, mentally tortured, and once, when engaging with an Italian mafioso, I almost got my brains blown out and sustained multiple vital injuries.
This, in all honesty, was nothing.
I looked over to Maxim. “Please escort my wife out of the hospital and make sure she gets home safe before you report back to me.”
“No,” Arlette sneered, rage gleaming brightly in her once dull eyes.
And then the picture of that stubborn woman whom I had first met months ago flashed into my mind.
The woman who didn’t back down.
