Page 111 of Arranged Marriage to the Brutal Bratva King
“You need a doctor!”
“We’re getting one. Just not… publicly.”
His eyes flutter closed, and panic spikes sharp and immediate.
“Dimitri. Stay awake. Look at me.” I cup his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to make me fall in love with you and then die in some random alley.”
His mouth curves slightly. “This is barely an inconvenience.”
“This isn’t funny!”
“Little bit funny.”
I want to hit him. Want to shake him until he understands the terror clawing through my chest, the way my entire world has narrowed to his pulse under my fingers and the rise and fall of his chest.
The car stops. We’re somewhere industrial, nondescript—the kind of building that asks no questions and keeps no records.
Hands reach in, lifting Dimitri with practiced care. I follow, refusing to let go, clutching his hand like it’s the only thing keeping both of us tethered to reality.
Inside is cleaner than I expected. Medical equipment. A woman in scrubs who takes one look at Dimitri and starts issuing orders in rapid Russian.
They pry my hand from his. Someone—Felix, maybe—pulls me back as they transfer Dimitri to a table that’s definitely seen trauma before.
“We need to let them work,” Felix says, voice gentle.
“I’m not leaving him.”
“I’m not asking you to leave. Just give them space.”
The woman cuts away Dimitri’s shirt, exposing the wound. Bullet entry, right side, below his ribs. Could have hit organs. Could be bleeding internally. Could kill him while I stand here useless and terrified.
Dimitri’s hand reaches out, seeking mine even as they prep him for whatever comes next.
I take it. Squeeze hard enough to hurt.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
His eyes meet mine. Clear despite the pain, despite everything.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Dimitri
Pain drags me back to consciousness.
Sharp and immediate, radiating from my side like fire spreading through dry wood. I try to move, abort the attempt when agony spikes white-hot behind my eyes.
Surgery. Right. I was shot.
The memories surface slowly through the haze of whatever they gave me for the pain. The restaurant. Gunfire. Janice’s scream cutting through chaos. Her hands on my back, coming away red.
Janice.
I force my eyes open despite the effort it costs. The room swims into focus—familiar ceiling, familiar walls. My bedroom. They brought me home after the surgery, then. Good. Hospitals ask questions I can’t afford to answer.
Movement catches my peripheral vision.
She’s there. Slumped in a chair pulled close to the bed, head resting on crossed arms near my hip, asleep in a position that can’t be comfortable. Her hair is tangled, makeup smeared like she’s been crying, and there’s blood dried on her hands.
