Page 18 of Used Bratva Bride

I bolt upright, gasping as pain shoots through my arm. The movement is too fast, too sudden, and the reminder of my injury slams into me like a fresh wound reopening.

For a second, my mind screams at me to run. To fight. To do something. Then I see him.

Not Mikhail, the man who steps inside is different. Older.

Neatly dressed, carrying a worn medical bag in one hand. His expression is neutral, unreadable, the kind of practiced indifference that tells me this isn’t the first time he’s treated an injury like mine.

Mikhail stands just outside the door. Watching, waiting.

I can feel him there without having to look. His presence fills the space, even from the hallway, thick and oppressive.

I swallow hard, my throat dry, my heart pounding as the doctor walks toward me.

“Let’s get this taken care of,” he says simply, his voice calm, detached. He doesn’t ask how I got hurt. He doesn’t offer reassurance.

Because he already knows.

I don’t move as he sets his bag down, methodically pulling out supplies—gauze, antiseptic, a needle and thread. The sight of it makes my stomach twist violently.

“I need you to stay still,” he says as he unravels the bandage on my arm.

The fabric peels away, sticky with blood. I can’t help the sharp hiss that escapes my lips as air rushes over the exposed wound.

It looks worse than I imagined.

Angry, bloody. A deep, raw line of flesh that screams in protest the second it’s touched.

I turn my head sharply, looking at the opposite wall. I can’t see this. I won’t see this.

“Don’t look if it makes you sick,” the doctor says, his voice matter-of-fact. “You’ll feel it either way.”

I already do. The first touch of antiseptic stings so badly I nearly jerk away, a strangled whimper catching in my throat.

“Stay still,” he warns.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I breathe through the pain.

And then—the needle. I feel the first puncture before I can prepare for it. A sharp, burning pull as the thread slides through my skin. My nails dig into the mattress beneath me, my entire body stiff as I try to suppress the nausea rising in my throat.

It hurts. God, it hurts. It feels like it takes forever, every second stretching endlessly. The doctor works quickly, efficiently, but it doesn’t matter—I feel every stitch pulling me back together.

When he finally leans back, I’m shaking.

“It’s done,” he says, his voice still impassive. He wraps fresh gauze around my arm, securing it tightly. “Keep it clean. Don’t disturb the stitches. They’ll dissolve on their own in a few weeks.”

I exhale shakily, nodding once, though I don’t know if I can even process what he’s saying.

He gathers his supplies, his job finished, and without another word, he steps toward the door.

Mikhail is still there, still watching. His eyes are unreadable as the doctor slips past him, exiting without a glance back.

I meet Mikhail’s gaze, searching for something—anything—that might tell me what’s coming next.

He simply locks the door, and leaves me alone.

Chapter Six - Mikhail

The study is dimly lit, a single lamp casting a golden glow over the dark wood of my desk. The faint scent of leather and old books lingers in the air, mixing with the remnants of whiskey in the glass beside me. I lean back in my chair, fingers tapping absently against the armrest, my thoughts drifting where they shouldn’t.

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