Page 94 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
I don’t know what to do with these feelings. He’s never asked me to stay. Never told me he needed me. Maybe he never will.
But I know what I feel.
And I know what I want.
I want to protect him. I want to be his shield, the way he’s been mine. I want to be by his side—not because I’m trapped, but because I choose it.
Because I choosehim.
I glance at his face again, softened in sleep.
And I make my decision. And when I finally stand, I know exactly what I’m going to do. I just don’t know if he’s ready for it.
Chapter 24 - Trifon
I wake to the smell of coffee and something buttery wafting through the hallway. Morning sunlight filters through the curtains, soft against the dark sheets. My shoulder aches less today. I move a little, cautious, testing the range of motion. No shooting pain. No blood-soaked gauze. Just the dull throb of a wound that’s finally almost healed.
But the room feels… empty.
Usually, by now, she’s here—moving softly, balancing a tray in one hand, her other one brushing her hair out of her face as she murmurs some reminder about antibiotics. She fusses in this quiet way that makes me feel cared for without being coddled.
But today, no sound. No soft knock. No warm presence hovering near the bed with her smile that makes everything more bearable.
I push myself up, frowning.
Where the hell is she?
The silence of the room suddenly feels too heavy.
I’ve grown accustomed to her presence over the past few weeks. Her quiet efficiency as she changed my bandages. The weight of her body curled in the chair beside my bed on the nights she refused to leave. I asked her to get into bed with me. But she said she might hurt me if she did.
“Yulia?” I call out, my voice still rough with sleep.
Nothing. I push myself up, testing my strength. Better. Much better than yesterday.
A soft knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.
“Come in,” I call, expecting—hoping—it’s her.
But it’s just one of the maids carrying a tray with breakfast and my medications. Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me sitting up.
“Good morning, Sir,” she says, setting the tray on the bedside table. “You’re looking much better today.”
“Where is Dr. Fyodorov?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.
She busies herself arranging things on the tray, not quite meeting my eyes. “She left early this morning, Sir.”
Something cold slides down my spine. “Left where?”
“To see her family, I believe,” Elena replies, pouring tea. “She said not to wake you, that you needed the rest.”
Her family. The words hit like a second bullet, this one straight through my chest.
“Did she say when she’d be back?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but god, my voice shakes. Elena glances up, concerned.
“No, Sir. She just asked me to make sure you took your medication and had something to eat.”
Of course. One last act of kindness before she walks away—the doctor making sure her patient won’t die after she’s gone. Professional to the end.
