Page 62 of Crystal Wrath
At the entrance, a member of the estate staff greets us. A middle-aged woman, calm and quiet. She doesn’t flinch at the state we’re in. I expect her to guide me to a room with tea and soft lights, maybe offer an ice pack for the bruises blooming along my ribs. But instead, Renat’s hand settles at the small of my back as he leans in.
“Come with me,” he murmurs. “The doctor’s here.”
I don’t argue. I don’t have the energy to. And having someone check me out sounds like a reasonable idea, even if nothing feels broken.
He leads me down a corridor I’ve never noticed before toward a wing of the house I didn’t realize existed. The door we stop at has always been closed. A part of the mansion’s secret anatomy I wasn’t privy to until now.
Inside, the lighting is soft but clinical, filling the space with a sterile glow that whispers contradiction. A portable examination table anchors the room, surrounded by standing lamps and a tray of carefully arranged medical supplies that gleam under the illumination. Cabinets line one wall, their glass doors revealingshelves of bandages, gauze, and bottles of medication I can’t name. The sharp tang of antiseptic hangs in the air. It’s clean and clinical.
A man rises from a leather chair as we enter. He's in his late fifties, dressed in a slate-gray shirt and dark trousers. His demeanor is composed but not cold. A stethoscope drapes around his neck. A leather doctor’s bag rests at his feet like it’s lived there for years.
“Dr. Pavlenko,” Renat says, his voice low. “He’s worked with my family a long time.”
That statement says more than a résumé ever could. Loyalty. Silence. Familiarity with wounds no hospital would ask about. The doctor gives me a polite nod.
“Miss Martinez,” he says, his voice pleasant and calm. “If you’re comfortable, I’ll take a look at your injuries.”
I glance at Renat. He meets my eyes, searching my face. Not for permission but for reassurance. That I’m okay with this. That I still have a choice. I nod. He walks out without another word, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
“A weapon was pressed to your ribs?” Dr. Pavlenko asks as he gently lifts the hem of my shirt.
“Yes.” My voice is thin and distant. “He didn’t pull the trigger.”
“You’re lucky,” he mutters, his fingers skimming the bruises with care. “Heart rate’s elevated. Blood pressure’s low. Tenderness here?” He presses just below my belly button.
I flinch.
He pauses, thoughtful. “When was your last menstrual cycle?”
The question doesn’t land right away. It hovers. Then, it drops like a stone.
“I...I don’t know.” I frown, staring at the ceiling, trying to scroll backward through the wreckage of the past few weeks. “It’s been a while. I’ve been under a lot of stress.”
“Understandable,” he says gently. “But stress alone doesn’t usually account for this. Would you like me to run a test?”
“No.” Too fast. My voice stumbles ahead of me. I shake my head. “No, I don’t need that. I’m sure it’s just stress. My schedule’s probably off. There’s been so much going on. I haven’t even been sleeping.”
But the words crumble in my mouth. My mind’s racing now. I try to count backward. The gala. The investigation. The explosion. The kidnapping. Renat.
And then it hits me. I missed it.
“I think…” I murmur, my breath catching in my throat. “I think I skipped last month.”
Dr. Pavlenko doesn’t react. He simply pulls a small, sealed packet from his bag and hands it to me.
“There’s a bathroom through that door,” he says, his tone gentle. “Let’s just check.”
I take the test with unsteady hands and walk across the room on spaghetti legs. The bathroom is crisp and elegant, yet it has a clinical feel. Cold tile. White marble. I follow the instructions, then set the test on the counter and perch on the edge of the tub.
Time slows to a cruel crawl. When I finally look down, the answer is clear.
Positive.
I grip the porcelain rim, bracing against the wave swelling inside me. When I return to the room, Dr. Pavlenko sees the truth before I speak.
“You’re pregnant,” he says softly.
My arms fold instinctively across my stomach. My voice is low and firm.
