Page 67 of Bratva Bidder
I press my lips to both their foreheads before grabbing my bag, casting one last look at the room before stepping out. The door shuts behind me with a soft click.
I hate walking away from them, even for ten minutes.
The hospital pharmacy smells like old paper and antiseptic. I hand over the slip for the medication, still breathless from rushing down here. The woman behind the counter takes it without looking at me, her fingers already tapping away at the keyboard.
“That’ll be one hundred sixty-five,” she says blandly.
I reach for my purse, pretending I’m calm. Collected.
But the moment I open my wallet, I know.
Shit.
I flip through the bills, check the inside pocket, even swipe open my banking app—but the numbers haven’t updated. The transfer from earlier today hasn’t landed yet. I’m short.
Painfully short.
“I just need a moment,” I murmur, offering the pharmacist a strained smile as I glance behind me. There’s already a small line. A mother with a child. A tired-looking nurse. All waiting. Pressure crawls under my skin.
I don’t want to leave without the meds. Nikolai needs them. Now.
And then, there’s a voice behind me.
Low. Calm. Icy.
“I’ll pay for it.”
I turn slowly. Konstantin is standing just a few feet away, like he’s been there the whole damn time. His suit is dark, his tie loosened like he made the effort to look casual. But his eyes? They’re burning.
He’s already offering his card to the pharmacist, gaze locked on mine.
My stomach plummets. “Konstantin,” I breathe, almost dizzy. “I—I didn’t expect?—”
“Clearly.” His tone is mild, but it cuts deeper than any raised voice.
The pharmacist finishes the transaction without a word. Konstantin hands the meds to me, slowly, his fingers brushing mine for just a second too long.
And in that second, I know.
I’ve been caught.
My fingers are cold. My heart feels like it’s vibrating in my chest.
I step out of line without a word, but he follows.
Of course he follows.
In the hallway, I finally find my voice. Barely. “What are you doing here?” I ask, not looking at him.
“I could ask you the same question,” he says evenly, nodding toward the bag in my hand. “Who are you buying those for?”
I don’t answer.
He stops walking, so I stop too.
“You told me you had no family,” he says, quieter now. “No one except your father.”
I swallow hard.
