Page 14 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

Yuri lies on a stained mattress on the floor, limbs splayed awkwardly, shirt cut open around the thigh. His face is gray with pain, soaked in sweat, jaw slack. The wound we gave him—just a clean shot through the muscle—is anything but clean now. The gauze tied around it is dark with blood, already seeping through. Too much blood.

Two men crouch nearby. Low-level muscle. Not medics, not even close.

One’s got a hand pressed over the dressing, the other clutches a bottle of vodka like it’s medical-grade antiseptic. Neither one looks up when I enter.

“Report,” I snap.

The man closest to me flinches, then straightens quickly. “He’s fading fast. We stopped the bleeding at first, but then it started again. He’s burning up. We tried ice, vodka, whatever we had, but—”

“You tried vodka?”

He swallows. “It was all we had.”

I walk slowly toward the mattress, eyes on Yuri’s leg. The bandage is soaked through and tied too tight in one place, too loose in another. No stitches. No antibiotic. No skill. Just panic and pressure.

I look down at him—this man who once sat beside me in meetings, who toasted with me in dark bars, who shared my trust like it was his right. Now he’s pale and shaking, his body sagging into the mattress like something already halfway dead.

My jaw clenches.

“You had one job,” I mutter to the men, not bothering to raise my voice. “Keep him breathing. Long enough to talk.”

“We tried,” one of them says quickly. “We’ve been here all night—”

“Get out.”

The words land like a blow. Neither argues. They scramble out of the room without looking back.

I stand there for a moment in the silence they leave behind, the bulb humming overhead, Yuri’s breath rasping shallow and uneven.

Boris steps inside after a moment, closes the door behind him. “He’s not going to make it to morning without a real doctor.”

“I know.”

“I made the call,” he adds, voice low. “Like you asked.”

I turn to him slowly. “And?”

“She’s en route.”

I nod once. The only thing to do.

Yuri shifts, groaning softly—half conscious, his head rolling weakly toward me. His eyes flicker open. They’re dull. Clouded. There’s a flicker of recognition there. Fear?

He tries to speak.

I crouch beside the mattress, resting my forearm on one knee. “You’re not dead yet.”

His mouth works around the word, but only a faint rasp comes out.

“You’ll talk when you can,” I murmur. “When you do, it had better be important.”

His body shudders, and the movement jolts fresh blood from the wound. It seeps through the already saturated gauze, blooming dark and fast.

He’s running out of time.

I stand and look to Boris. “When the doctor gets here,” I say, voice cold and even, “she keeps him alive. Long enough to confess everything. If he dies before that, I don’t care how talented she is—she’ll follow him into the grave.”

Boris nods once.

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