Page 27 of Captive Virgin of the Bratva

“You said he’d live,” Kolya interrupts, his voice calm and cold.

“Hemighthave,” I snap, “if you didn’t ignore half of what I told you.”

My voice echoes sharper than I intend, but I don’t care. He can kill me if he wants. I’m already tired of swallowing my tongue.

Kolya doesn’t reply, but I feel the room shift—like the air itself stiffens.

I grab the syringe and draw up the next round of antibiotics, then reach for the IV line. My fingers are fast, efficient, still trembling slightly from adrenaline. I press the needle in—and slip.

The tip catches my finger. Just a tiny prick. A bloom of red beads on my skin.

I flinch, more from the shock than the pain.

“Shit,” I hiss, dropping the needle onto the tray.

Before I can grab a wipe, Kolya moves.

He takes a single step forward, sudden and almost automatic, like his body reacted before he could stop it. For a second, I swear he’s about to reach for me—like he’s going to check the wound, or maybe grab my hand.

Then something flickers across his face. A wall slams down behind his eyes.

He scoffs and straightens. “Pathetic,” he mutters, voice sharp enough to slice through bone. “You can stitch up a bullet wound but cry over a scratch?”

I freeze. Then slowly, I look up at him, my finger still bleeding. Our eyes lock.

“Better a scratch,” I say, my voice low and hard, “than needing a gun to feel like a man.”

The words hang in the air like a spark just before ignition. Kolya’s face doesn’t move. Not for a second, except when his jaw tightens. His eyes darken.

For one breathless moment, we juststareat each other—something raw and electric pulsing between us. Not just rage. Not just defiance. Something hotter. Stranger. The kind of tension that lives in the breath between a kiss and a slap. My heart slams against my ribs. My mouth is dry.

I hate that it feels like he might kiss me. Or maybe kill me. Either way, I can’t look away.

Then he breaks the stare.

He turns without a word, his coat flaring behind him as he walks out of the room, footsteps vanishing into the hallway with controlled fury.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. My hands tremble now for a different reason.

I patch Yuri’s IV in silence, dress the wound again, wipe my finger and slap a adhesive bandage on it without thought. My thoughts aren’t on the wound. Or the fever.

They’re on him.Kolya.

On the way he looked at me. Like he wanted to tear something apart and couldn’t decide if it was me or himself. On the way he moved toward me before he remembered who he was supposed to be.

I don’t know what scares me more. That he might want to hurt me—

Or that some traitorous part of me wants to be wanted by him.

I stay by Yuri’s side until his breathing evens out again. The fever hasn’t broken, but it’s not climbing either. A fragile middle ground—temporary, dangerous. My hands move on autopilot as I adjust the IV line and check the dressings one last time, but my mind is far from steady.

It won’t let go of Kolya.

The way he looked at me—so sharp, so sudden. Not cold, not this time. Not entirely. There was something else buried there, just beneath the surface. Something he doesn’t want anyone to see, least of all himself.

That flicker. That almost.

Worse than seeing it? Feeling it.

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