Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
The memory comes back in pieces. I remember the sharp gunfire and the blasting of car horns. I can hear Viktor shouting in my mind. I can see bodies falling to the ground in my memory. Then a man is stepping out of an alleyway and pointing his gun right at Viktor.
Why did I shove him out of the way? I could have ended this whole nightmare. I could have ended my captivity and made a run for it. Instead, I chose to take a bullet for Viktor. I chose to save his life.
My throat tightens at the memory. Tears spring to my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. I knew that Viktor living gave me a better chance at surviving Mikhail. That’s all it was. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.
The room is quiet, and there isn’t the flurry of activity I would expect at a hospital. No voices in the hallway or footsteps running toward a critical patient. No, Viktor wouldn’t bring me to a hospital. There would be too many questions involved. Too much risk.
A woman steps in a moment later. She’s older, with her hair pulled back tight, and she wears a calm expression that suggests she’s seen worse than whatever I look like right now. She moves to the IV line and the bag before she even glances at my face. She isn’t over-friendly.
“You’re awake,” she says when she sees my eyes open.
Her tone is neutral. She’s not necessarily happy that I’m awake, but as my nurse, I have to imagine she’s at least a little glad I’m not dead.
“Unfortunately,” I rasp, and my voice comes out dry and rough.
She checks my pulse with two fingers, then shines a light briefly in my eyes.
“Are you experiencing a headache?” she asks.
“No,” I answer.
“Nausea?”
“Yes,” I say.
She looks at my face for a beat, then glances down at the blanket. “What’s your pain level on a scale from one to ten?”
“It’s enough,” I say.
She doesn’t react.
“From one to ten,” she repeats.
I stare at her.
She stares back like she’s had this conversation with tougher men than me. “I need a number.”
“Six,” I answer, though it’s closer to a nine.
She nods once and adjusts the bed slightly, raising the head so I’m not flat. The movement sends pain slicing under my ribs again. I keep my jaw tight and refuse to make a sound. The nurse watches my face like she’s measuring whether I’m about to do something stupid.
“You have two cracked ribs,” she says casually.
“Is that all?” I mutter.
“And bruising. A lot of it. The bullet didn’t penetrate. You’re extremely lucky.”
Funny, I don’t feel lucky. I feel pain and I feel shame. There’s also the confusing emotions from choosing to take a bullet for a man I thought I hated. Lucky, though? Not one bit.
The nurse checks the monitor, then the IV again. She makes a small adjustment to the drip, hopefully letting in a little more pain reliever than I’m getting. Her hands are steady, and I notice myself watching them the way I used to watch my mother’s hands when she cooked. Like I’m hoping to find comfort in her movements.
“The doctor will be in soon,” she says.
My stomach tightens. I know Viktor is out there somewhere, just waiting to hear that I’m awake. I’m not ready to face him just yet.
The nurse finishes and steps toward the door.
“Try to rest,” she says, then hesitates like she’s deciding whether to offer sympathy. She decides against it. “You need it.”
The door shuts behind her. My breathing stays controlled, shallow enough to avoid lighting my ribs on fire. My hands curl under the blanket, nails pressing into my palm. In the back of my mind, I think of the pregnancy.
He knows. He must know. He brought me here and he’s not the kind of man to care about HIPAA laws. That thought makes my pulse jump, and I hate it. This isn’t something I was ready to share, and the choice was taken away from me. How am I supposed to face him now?
The door opens again and I’m out of time. Viktor walks in and shuts it behind him. He stops a few feet away from the bed like he’s forcing himself not to crowd me. His eyes move over me in a quick scan, not lingering on my face for long, dropping to the IV, then to the blanket over my ribs. His jaw is tight. His hair is slightly messy. There’s dried blood on his cuff.
“You’re awake,” he says nonchalantly, though I can see the tension rippling under the surface.
“I wish I wasn’t,” I rasp.
My voice sounds weak. My throat feels tight, though I’m not sure if it’s from pain or fear. Viktor’s eyes flick to my mouth in concern. His gaze drops to the monitor again.