Page 50 of Dangerous Beginnings

Aslanov seems to notice as he turns towards me. I can’t hide it anymore, and he sees everything. I don’t have the strength to fight him off as he lifts my shirt higher, exposing more of the bruises that mark my skin. His fingers press down, harder this time, testing, and the agony that shoots through my ribs makes me gasp.

“Fuck.” His voice is a low, harsh growl. I can feel the anger radiating off him, sharp and dangerous. He pulls his hand back, and I can see the way his jaw clenches, his eyes darkening as they trace every mark, every bruise. His breath comes out in short, angry bursts, and I can sense that this isn’t the usual detached rage I’ve seen from him. This is something deeper, something darker.

“Who did this to you?” His voice is ice, controlled but barely. I can hear the fury beneath it, coiled and ready to strike. When I don’t respond, he grabs my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but with enough force to demand an answer. “Tell me,” he says, his voice lowering to something more dangerous. “Whothe fucktouched you?”

I shake my head, the pain too overwhelming to speak. His grip tightens for a second before he curses again, louder this time. “Goddamn it, Isabella.”

His words make my chest tighten even more, but not just from fear. There’s something else in the way he’s acting, something raw and possessive. I’ve seen him angry before, but never like this. It’s as if my pain is fueling a storm inside him, and it’s on the verge of erupting. He’s losing control, and that terrifies me more than anything.

I want to tell him, to give him the name that will satisfy this rage, but I can’t. I don’t have the energy, the words, or even the will to let him know. I pull my wrist free, collapsing back onto the bed, the panic seizing me again. The pain is becoming unbearable, my chest feels like it’s being crushed from the inside. His eyes flicker with something unreadable before he yanks off his tie and tosses it across the room. He rolls up his sleeves, the muscles in his arms flexing as he paces, his boots stomping loudly against the floor. The noise makes me flinch again. His hands rake through his hair, tugging at the roots in frustration.

“Fuck,” he curses again, this time softer, but no less dangerous. He’s shaking now, the tension in him so thick it fills the room. He takes a long breath, trying to calm himself, but it doesn’t work. I can feel him burning with anger, unable to stand the sight of me in this state.

He grabs his phone and starts barking orders in Russian, his voice sharp and commanding. He’s calling someone—a doctor, I think. His words are clipped, fast, but I can hear the urgency in them. As soon as he hangs up, he’s back at my side, his fingers brushing against my face, wiping away the tears that keep falling no matter how much I try to stop them.

Nearly half an hour passes, the weight of the silence thick and oppressive. I can feel the tension in the air, wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket. Aslanov hasn’t moved far from me, his eyes flicking toward the door every few minutes.

There’s an anger simmering beneath his calm facade, one I know will explode the moment someone crosses him.

When the door opens an older man stands on the doorstep, the door swings open with a creak, and he steps inside, already visibly nervous. His hands tremble slightly as he sets down his bag and glances around the room, his eyes darting between Aslanov and me. He’s not a stranger to this world. He knows who Aslanov is—what he’s capable of. His hair is black, but with strands of gray, marking his age. He is carrying a case and wears a white coat, assuming he’s a doctor. I stare at the man with a pleading gaze.

The doctor kneels by the bed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He examines me quickly, his hands cold against my bruised skin. I can see the fear in his eyes as he works, as though any mistake might cost him everything. His fingers brush lightly over my ribs, and I wince, the pain shooting through me again. Aslanov hasn’t said a word yet.

“She... needs to go to a hospital,” he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper. “This... this is beyond what I can treat here.” He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand, glancing nervously at Aslanov, who stands behind him, silent but deadly. The doctor’s hands are shaking more visibly now, fumbling with his instruments. “I—I don’t have the equipment for this. She’s in a lot of pain, internal injuries maybe. Please, she needs real treatment, not just what I can give her.”

Aslanov doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches so long it feels like the air is being sucked out of the room. I watch as the doctor looks up, his face pale, his lips quivering. He knows what’s coming before it happens, and so do I. Aslanov moves like a predator, calm and calculated, his hand slipping inside his jacket and pulling out the sleek, deadly form of his gun. The metallic click echoes in the small space, and the doctor’s face drains of color. I only now realize he had gathered the gun from the table again.

The man stumbles backward, his eyes wide with terror as Aslanov raises the gun, pointing it directly at his chest. “What did you just say?” Aslanov’s voice is quiet, but the cold menace behind it chills me to the bone.

The doctor tries to speak, his words faltering. “I-I just meant...I-I can’t... I can’t help her fully here,” he stammers, his breath coming in panicked gasps now. “I’m sorry, but-”

“Your being sorry is enough,” Aslanov cuts him off, his voice low and dangerous, as if he’s savoring the doctor’s fear. The doctor is shaking uncontrollably now, his eyes flicking toward me, then back to the gun. “You will fix her,” Aslanov growls, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Or I will bury you in the same bed you’re standing next to.”

The doctor’s hands shoot up in a pleading gesture. “I-I swear, I’m doing everything I can. But this... it’s beyond me. I’m not equipped for this here, I swear. I’m just a doctor, I-”

Aslanov’s patience snaps, and he presses the barrel of the gun harder against the man’s chest. “You listen to me,now,” he hisses with a Russian accent, his tone dark, a dangerous calm taking over.

“You fix her here, or I’ll find someone else to do it after I put a bullet through your fucking skull. And don’t think for a second I’m bluffing. I don’t need a hospital. I needyouto make her better.”

The doctor’s eyes widen in sheer terror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Please...” he whispers, his voice trembling. He tries to move back, but there’s nowhere to go. The gun follows him, unrelenting, unforgiving.

Aslanov’s eyes gleam with something dark, something almost... possessive. “Do you understand me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper now, the threat as sharp as the steel in his hand.

The doctor nods frantically, tears welling up in his eyes. “I understand, I understand,” he gasps, his voice cracking under the pressure. “I’ll...I’ll do everything I can. Please, just…just don’t…”

Aslanov lowers the gun just an inch, enough to let the doctor breathe again but not enough to make him forget the deadly promise behind it. “Good,” he says coldly. “Now get to work.”

The doctor scrambles, fumbling with his tools, his hands shaking so badly I almost wonder if he’ll be able to do anything at all. But the fear of death sharpens his focus, and he begins treating me, muttering apologies under his breath as he works.

I glance at Aslanov from the corner of my eye, my heart pounding. He watches the doctor with a cold, detached expression, his hand still resting on the gun, ready to end a life if the doctor doesn’t meet his expectations.

I don’t understand why he cares so much.

“Don’t hurt him, Aslanov. He’s trying to help.” My breath quickens, and despite the pain that shoots through me, I manage to push myself up on my elbows, desperation fueling me. I try to get his attention, but Aslanov doesn’t look at me immediately, his gaze still fixed on the doctor, who’s shaking so hard I’m afraid he might collapse. But then, slowly, Aslanov’s eyes flick to mine, cold and unfeeling.

“Isabella,” he says, his tone low and almost condescending.

“This is none of your concern.”

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