Page 45 of Forced Marriage to the Cruel Bratva Pakhan

Pavel is in surgery because he put himself between me and a bullet. In that split second when Kravin’s gun swung toward me, Pavel didn’t hesitate—didn’t calculate risks or strategic value. He just moved.

He almost died for it.

“Why would he do that?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Risk everything for me?”

Maria’s expression softens further. “Because you’re his wife.”

“This isn’t a real marriage. It’s a business arrangement.” The words tumble out, desperate and unconvincing even to my own ears.

“Is that what you believe?” Maria asks gently. “After everything?”

Before I can answer, the door to the medical room opens. Dr. Belov emerges, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His surgical gown is stained with blood—Pavel’s blood—and exhaustion lines his face.

I’m on my feet immediately. “Is he okay?”

“He’s stable,” Belov says, and relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. “The bullet passed through the shoulder muscle without hitting bone or major arteries. He lost significant blood, but nothing we couldn’t manage. He’ll need rest and physical therapy, but full recovery is expected.”

The tears I’ve been holding back since the warehouse finally spill over. I press my uninjured hand to my mouth, trying to contain the sob that wants to escape.

“Can I see him?” The question comes out broken, desperate.

Belov nods. “He’s unconscious from the anesthesia, but you can sit with him. Just keep it quiet; he needs rest.”

I’m moving before he finishes speaking, pushing past him into the room.

Pavel lies on the hospital bed, painfully still against white sheets. His left shoulder is heavily bandaged, and an IV runs from his right arm. His face is pale—too pale—dark hair stark against the pillow.

His chest rises and falls with steady rhythm. Breathing. Alive.

I sink into the chair beside the bed, my legs finally giving out. Up close, I can see details I missed before—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension that remains even in unconsciousness, the faint scar along his jaw that I’ve noticed before but never really examined.

He looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen. Pavel Rudenko, the controlled Bratva boss who commands absolute authority, reduced to this pale and unconscious man in ways that make my chest ache.

My hand moves almost without conscious decision, reaching toward his face. I catch myself just before touching, fingers hovering over his forehead where a strand of dark hair has fallen across his brow.

I want to brush it back. Want to smooth away the tension still visible in his features. Want to—

His eyes snap open.

I jerk back immediately, embarrassed to be caught hovering over him like some lovesick fool. “I was just… uh, there was hair in your face.”

The excuse sounds pathetic even to me.

Pavel’s gaze focuses slowly, pain medication making his usual sharp awareness slightly hazy. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “You’re hurt.”

Of course that’s his first concern. Not his own injury, not the fact that he just had surgery, but the cuts and bruises I sustained in the warehouse.

“I’m fine,” I say, the same automatic response I gave Maria. “You’re the one who got shot.”

“Minor wound.” He tries to sit up, winces, and falls back against the pillows. “How long was I unconscious?”

“About an hour. Dr. Belov said the surgery went well.” I lean forward despite myself, one hand moving to his uninjured shoulder to keep him from trying to rise again. “You need to rest. Don’t try to move.”

“I’m fine.” Even as he says it, I can see the pain tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches against it.

“You’re not fine. You got shot.” My voice breaks slightly on the last word. “You stepped in front of a bullet meant for me and you almost died and you’re not fine.”

He studies my face with that intense focus I’ve come to recognize, even dulled by medication. “You’re crying.”