Page 2 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
“You’re twenty-eight, you know?” my mother chided me. “For someone who’s a doctor, you must know there’s a biological clock.”
“We’ve got friends with young sons,” my father chimed in. “If you like, we can set you up!”
I couldn’t get offthatcall fast enough.
The truth is, I love my family. But growing up a Fyodorov means growing up with rules. My parents came to America with nothing, built everything from the ground up, and then spent their lives making sure we never had to struggle the way they did. My brothers had freedom. They could take risks, make mistakes. I wasn’t given the same choice. I was protected, told the world was dangerous, that I wasn’t ready for it.
And when my parents see me making the choices I’m making, they worry. It’s natural, but I plan to prove them wrong about some things.
So I rebelled in the only way I knew how: by excelling. Perfect grades, perfect test scores, and perfect extracurricularactivities. I worked my ass off to get into Mass General. All to prove I could make it without my family name opening doors.
Marcy does her thing and comes back to my side, asking if I’d like to join her at the cafeteria for dinner.
“I just—” I start, but am interrupted by the sound of my pager. “Gotta run. Thanks for the coffee, Helen. You’re a lifesaver.”
“That’s your job, not mine,” she calls after me as I rush toward the trauma bay.
I check two patients back-to-back—one with a broken arm, the other with a nasty case of food poisoning. After giving the nurses instructions for X-rays and an IV drip with antibiotics, I find a quiet corner to finish my notes for the day.
And that’s when I hear a loud, commanding, and real rude voice bellow across the ER floor. “I need the best doctor in this hospital. My brother’s badly injured. Get on it NOW!”
He sounds like the kind of man who expects to be obeyed without question. Men like him have a way to make my stubborn streak flare.
I try to focus on my notes, knowing that it would be best if someone else handled him because when I lose patience, it’s not a pretty picture.
“YOU?” he screams. “I wouldn’t even trust you to put a needle in me. Find me someone better!”
“But, Sir,” I hear Dr. Chen, the attendant on duty, speak calmly. “I am in charge tonight. You can trust me. Please, tell me what the problem is.”
“The problem is that you don’t look old enough to even put on a Band-Aid. Get me your superior!”
What the hell? Dr. Chen is one of the brightest attendings we have, straight out of Stanford. I look up from my notes, irritation flaring, and my head snaps to find the source of this disturbance—another entitled VIP losing his mind because the world doesn’t revolve around him.
When I find him, my brain blanks for a second.
Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black button-down, sleeves rolled, tattoos curling along his forearms. His jaw’s sharp enough to look like god went at him with a hammer. Black hair swept back from his forehead, dark blue eyes darker than the deep sea, and the kind of face that belongs on the cover of GQ.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart begins to race like a little jackhammer.
Yeah. Trouble if I ever saw one.
Just my luck. This annoying piece of shit had to be hot. Infuriatingly so.
“The chief of surgery isn’t available at the moment,” Dr. Chen explains, maintaining his professional tone. “But I assure you, we have excellent—”
“Get him. From wherever he is!” the man bellows.
The attending is already there, explaining that the chief is unavailable, and the guy looks one second from flipping the entire ER upside down. Unbelievable! Clearly, he thinks he can sail through life with that sorry excuse of a personality.
I see Dr. Chen begin to look nervous, and before this man causes any more trouble and scares off our patients, I decide to step right in.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping up beside Dr. Chen. “I’m Dr. Fyodorov. What happened to your brother?”
Those intense eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, in a dangerous kind of way.
“Gunshot wound,” he says, turning back to look at Dr. Chen before meeting mine again. “Lower abdomen. He’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Let’s get him inside right now. We’ll stabilize him and assess the damage, then call in the surgical team.”
