Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95627 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
"No hospitals," the man repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Don't worry, I've got him. I'll stitch him up as good as new."
"Are you a doctor?" I demanded as they transferred Artem from the stretcher to the kitchen island that had been transformed into a makeshift operating table.
"No, but my wife made me watch a lot of Grey's Anatomy. It doesn't look that hard."
"What?" I screeched. If I hadn't been holding Artem's blood in, I would have clawed this man's face off until they took us to a real hospital.
"Calm down. I was a field medic in Spetsnaz. I've pulled more bullets out of more bodies than most surgeons." He said it so casually, it was almost more terrifying.
After scrubbing his hands in the kitchen sink and pulling on latex gloves he grabbed from the medical kit, he had me move my knee while he cleaned and packed the wounds. I watched his every movement like a hawk, looking for any mistake—not that I would recognize one. But his hands moved with quick, precise motions. His movements were strong and confident, which reassured me that he had done this many times before.
"I'll stitch this up now, but first we need to save as much of his blood as possible. If we need more, I have two donors on standby."
"Not it, Mikhail," called one of the men setting up lights around the island.
"Kostya, if I need your blood to save your brother, I'm taking it. You can volunteer it and take the needle like a man, or I can slit your throat and drain you like a pig. The choice is yours." Mikhail's voice was deadly calm, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation.
Other than his first name, I didn't know this man, but I was beginning to like him.
My eyes never left his bloody hands. He may not have been a real doctor, but his medical training was evident in every movement. A field medic, clearly a good one.
Dima had once told me about his time training as a field medic. It wasn't because he had any intention of going into a war zone, he'd said, but if war came to him, it was important to treat his men well enough that they survived long enough to get someone more qualified. That looked like what Mikhail was doing—packing and binding each wound so Artem no longer relied on my small, shaking fingers or my knee to keep him alive.
After several tense minutes, Mikhail had each of Artem's wounds—the one in his upper arm close to the shoulder, and the deeper one on his side—stabilized.
Even before pressing his wounds to staunch the bleeding, I already knew where they were. I had watched each of those bullets tear into his body on the monitor in the panic room.
At first, it hadn't felt real, watching Artem on the small screen wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, stalking through the halls, shooting men in the head like it was an action movie.
James Bond could never.
Artem hadn't even looked like himself. Usually, he was cold and distant, but still human. The man I watched was pure ice—showing no emotion, no hesitation, no empathy.
At least not until he encountered the man who had joked about raping me.
Artem shot him in the neck and left him to suffer. He'd done that for me—to protect me and inflict pain on someone who would have hurt me.
"I need to remove the bullet close to his shoulder now," Mikhail said, his voice pulling me back to the present.
The kitchen had transformed into a battlefield hospital. Bright lights had been set up, surgical tools laid out on clean towels, and what looked like a bag of blood hung from a coat rack someone had dragged in.
"You." Mikhail pointed at me. "Hold this retractor. Don't move it, don't flinch, don't even breathe funny. Just hold it exactly where I place it."
I nodded, both terrified and strangely calm now. I would do whatever it took to keep Artem alive.
Mikhail worked for hours. He patched the wound in Artem's side first. I flinched at the way the blood-stained bullet clinked in the metal surgical dish.
"Hand me that suture kit," he ordered, and with my bloody hands, I carefully picked up the plastic container that held a needle and thread, making sure not to touch the sterile equipment inside.
Mikhail worked diligently, barking orders at everyone else but using a softer tone when he spoke to me. I wondered if he could tell I was in shock, or if he simply didn't like screaming at women.
"Talk to him," Mikhail said as he began suturing Artem's side.
"What?"
"Talk to him. I don't know what the deal is between you two, but I know he cares about you, and right now, he needs a reason to live. I'm doing everything I can, but I need him to want to pull through. So for the love of God, talk to him."