Page 76 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“Stay with me,” he begs. “Yulia, look at me.”
I try, but my eyelids feel weighted. The marble floor beneath us tilts and spins.
“Car’s here!” someone shouts.
Then I’m cradled against Trifon’s chest, and he strides through the foyer. His heartbeat thunders under my ear, too fast, too hard. Another cramp tears through me, and I whimper.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, the words tumbling out of him on repeat. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.”
Cool night air hits my face. I hear car doors slam. I’m laid across the backseat, my head in Trifon’s lap. His fingers push damp hair from my forehead with a gentleness that feels foreign from those hands.
“Drive,” he barks. “Not the hospital. My clinic. Call Dr. Korov. Tell him to meet us there.”
I try to focus, but everything blurs—streetlights streaming past the window, Trifon’s face above mine, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth.
“What’s happening?” I manage, my voice thin and shaky.
Trifon’s jaw clenches. “You’re bleeding.”
I nod slowly, trying to think through the fog of pain. “Internal? External?”
“I don’t know,” he says, sounding worried. “Between your legs. A lot.”
My mind tries to put the pieces together. Nausea. Fatigue. Tender breasts. The dizziness I attributed to stress. The spotting I thought was just a light period from working too hard at the clinic. I should know what this means. I do know.
But my thoughts scatter as another wave of pain makes me curl into myself.
“Five minutes,” Trifon says, squeezing my hand. “Just hold on five more minutes.”
Time stretches and contracts. The city blurs past. Trifon’s touch is the only anchor—his thumb drawing circles on my wrist, over and over, like he’s mapping the path of my pulse.
Then we’re stopping, and Trifon is lifting me again. I force my eyes open to see a small, nondescript building. Not my clinic. Another one.
“Where?” I murmur against his neck.
“My private facility,” he says, striding toward the entrance. “It’s the best.”
Of course, he has his own secret medical facility.
“Pakhan.” A man in scrubs rushes forward, then stops short when he sees me. “This is...?”
“My wife,” Trifon says. “She’s bleeding. Help her.”
I can hear the urgency in the doctor’s voice. “This way.”
They rush me to an exam room, Trifon refusing to set me down until there’s a gurney beneath me. The nurses and doctorsattach monitors, start an IV, and take vital signs. Through it all, Trifon hovers at my side.
“I need to examine her,” the doctor says to Trifon, not to me.Medical sexism at its finest.“You should wait outside.”
Trifon’s eyes narrow dangerously. “I stay.”
“Sir, it’s not—”
“I. Stay.”
The doctor sighs. “Fine. But stand at the head of the bed. Give us room to work.”
I want to be angry. I want to tell them both I’m right here, perfectly capable of making my own decisions. But another cramp seizes me, and all I can do is grit my teeth against the pain.
