Page 6 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I push out through the ER doors into the cool night and pull out my phone, dialing Leonid first, then Iosif and Miron, before putting them on conference.
“Valentin’s stable,” I tell them. “Bullet missed his organs. He’s patched up.”
“Oh, thank god,” Leonid breathes in relief as my other brothers also give their wishes.
“Get over here,” I tell them. “Leonid and Iosif. Miron, make sure the house is ready for him.”
“But brother, what about the Zakharovs?” Leonid asks.
“I’ll handle it. You three better not get involved.”
It’s my job to protect them. The Zakharovs will get their revenge, but how and when that happens will be on my hands.
“Yes, Brother,” says Miron.
“Prep the crew, Miron. I’m ready for payback. Leonid, Iosif? I want you here in fifteen minutes for Valentin.”
I end the call, still thinking of all the painful, slow ways I’m going to make the Zakharovs bleed, when movement catches my eye.
I turn—and there she is.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
How the hell did I miss her through the haze of panic earlier? Maybe it was the blood, the adrenaline, the fact that my brother was bleeding out in my car—but now? With the night air cool against my skin and my mind finally clear, I see her.
Dr. Fyodorov.
She’s standing near the edge of the parking lot, one hand wrapped around a steaming coffee cup, the other tucked into the pocket of her scrubs. The streetlights cast a soft glow over her—hair like spun gold pulled into a messy knot, tendrils slipping loose around her face. Freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose like constellations, lips pink from biting the inside of them.
But it’s her eyes that hit me hardest—sharp, curious, so goddamn green they glow like a feline’s in the wild.
She’s watching me.
My eyes drag over her, slower this time. The curve of her waist under those baggy scrubs, the tired sag of her shoulders.
Even wrecked from a long shift, she’s gorgeous.
And trouble.
I clench my fists before I do something stupid, like ask for her number, but the image burns itself into my head anyway.
Yeah. Trouble.
But I’m already hooked.
Chapter 3 - Yulia
The coffee’s burnt, bitter, and scalds my tongue—but at this hour, caffeine is caffeine.
I wrap both hands around the flimsy paper cup and lean against the stone pillar just outside the ER entrance, letting the cool night air slap me awake. My legs ache, my eyelids droop, and my brain is already replaying charts on a loop. Another fourteen-hour shift survived.
Barely.
I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the sharp Boston air.
That’s when I hear entitled commands piercing through the air. I turn to find the cause of the commotion and see the tattooed terror from earlier, barking into his phone as if he owns the airwaves. Great. So much for peace and quiet.
My stomach tightens instantly. I should go back inside and give him his privacy. I really should. But curiosity keeps me planted in place, hidden partly by the shadow of the ambulance bay overhang.
