Page 91 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
His bullet catches me in the shoulder, spinning me backward. Mine hits him somewhere—I can’t tell where through the smoke and chaos, but I see him stagger.
God, it hurts. There’s no time for pain, not with my men still in danger.
“Trifon, you’re hit!” Leonid shouts, appearing at my side.
“I’m fine,” I growl, even as blood soaks through my shirt. “Keep moving.”
We push forward, systematically clearing the warehouse. By the time we’ve secured the area, the Zakharovs have retreated, taking their wounded with them.
Only when the last of my men is safely accounted for do I allow myself to acknowledge the injury. My entire left side is on fire, blood flowing freely from what feels like more than just a shoulder wound.
“You need a doctor, Trifon!” Miron screams as I stumble to the ground.
“Then bring one to the house,” I insist, vision starting to blur at the edges. “But don’t tell her. Don’t...”
The world tilts and darkens. The last thing I think before consciousness slips away is her name.
Yulia.
Chapter 23 - Yulia
The clinic smells really strange today, I think to myself. Like antiseptic … and lavender oil?
Nina, one of our new hires, must be burning it again in the waiting room diffuser—claims it keeps the tension down in Bratva wives. I’m halfway through charting vitals for a postoperative checkup when the sound of tires screeching outside cuts the air like a blade.
Seconds later, the front doors slam open.
“Help!” someone shouts, rough and frantic. “He’s bleeding out!”
I’m already up before I know it, stethoscope falling to the floor. I rush toward the noise just as Leonid barrels in, soaked in blood, wheeling a stretcher.
And on it—
My body stops before my brain catches up.
“Trifon,” I whisper.
He’s unconscious. Barely breathing. Blood saturates the entire left side of his shirt. There are lacerations along his torso, and bruises crawling across his ribs like shadows under glass.
For one terrifying second, I can’t move.
Not him. Not like this.
“Yulia!” Valentin barks. “We need to get the bullet out now or we’ll lose him!”
Bullet. He’s been shot. All that blood…he’ll bleed out if I don’t get that fucking bullet out. I snap into action.
“Get him in exam room one,” I order, my voice not sounding like my own. It sounds screechier, high-pitched, a nervous wreck.
“What happened?” I ask, as we rush Trifon in.
Leonid’s face is grim. “Ambush at the docks. He took a bullet to the shoulder.”
My heart is hammering so hard I can barely hear my own thoughts. They lay him on the table, his body limp, shirt soaked through with blood. There’s a ragged hole in his left shoulder, dark and ugly against his skin.
“Who was it?” I demand, already cutting away his shirt with trembling fingers.
“The Zakharovs,” Miron says, voice tight. “It was a trap.”
