Page 19 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“What—what happened to him?” I ask, the words shaking loose before I can stop them.

I barely get them out before Kolya turns. He’s on me in an instant.

His hand clamps around my jaw, fingers digging into my cheeks. Not hard enough to bruise. Just enough to own.

“You don’t get to ask questions,” he growls, his voice like steel dragged across concrete. His face is so close I can feel the heat of his breath. “Your job is to keep him alive.”

His other hand moves—quick, practiced—and suddenly, there’s something cold against my temple.

A gun.

My breath stops. My heart doesn’t beat—itpounds. Violent. Deafening. Like it’s trying to escape my body. The barrel is smooth, unyielding. My knees nearly buckle.

“If he dies,” Kolya says slowly, deliberately, “you die. Understand?”

I nod. Fast. Too fast.

His grip lingers for a moment longer. Just enough to let the weight of the threat settle deep into my bones. Then he releases me, stepping back as though nothing just happened. The gun disappears into the holster beneath his coat like it was never there.

I can’t move.

He shoves me forward. “Go,” he says. “Do what you were taken for.”

The doctor in me—the part that still functions on instinct and training—forces my legs to move. I stumble toward the man on the mattress, trying to ignore the bile rising in my throat. My hands tremble so badly I can barely undo the bindings. They fall to the floor, forgotten.

I drop to my knees beside the unconscious man, pressing my fingers to his throat. Pulse—weak, fast. Skin—hot. Too hot.

I press the back of my hand to his forehead. Fever.

“Name?” I ask, voice dry.

“Yuri,” the other man says from the corner.

I nod, already lifting the soaked gauze. The wound underneath is angry—red, swollen, oozing. The bullet hole is ragged, and whoever tried to treat it before butchered it. No irrigation, no antiseptic, and the wrappings were tight enough to trap the infection inside. Idiots.

If they wanted me here, they must have something. Even a basic kit.

“Gloves. Alcohol. Clean gauze. Antibiotics, if you have them. Now,” I say, louder this time.

Kolya raises a brow but doesn’t argue.

He nods once to the man in the corner, who disappears into another room.

I lean over Yuri, working quickly with what I have. The shaking hasn’t stopped, but I push through it. I’ve seen worse. I’ve saved worse.

Never under the barrel of a gun. Never like this.

The fever’s climbing. If I can’t cool him, he’ll seize. I glance around for anything—ice, cold water, something to reduce the temperature. Nothing.

“He needs cooling packs,” I say. “Towels soaked in cold water. Anything.”

Kolya watches me with that same unreadable stare.

“If he dies,” he repeats.

“I know,” I snap, without looking at him.

Then I keep working, because there’s nothing else to do. I want to live. Maybe—just maybe—keepinghimalive will buy me time to figure out how to save myself.

---