Page 77 of The Pakhan's Kidnapped Bride
“Emmanuil, don’t be ridiculous. Why are you always so difficult?” She huffs angrily.
“I don’t need a doctor, Anya,” I snap, biting my tongue, holding back the lashing of harsh words I want to spit at her. I am not the difficult one.
But I’m in too much pain right now to have this argument. It’s not just the gunshot, which really did go through, and from experience, I know it’s not as serious as it looks, even though it hurts like hell.
Myheartis a fucking disaster. Like the wreckage from a car crash. There are pieces of my heart scattered everywhere, and I’ve spent all morning trying to pull myself together, but with no success.
She left me again.
Anya glares at me in annoyance, then turns her back on me.
“I need the code,” she snaps, standing at the door.
“Zero seven zero three,” I sigh.
“Seventh of March?” She whispers, her voice tight.
I ignore her. There’s nothing I can say to that. When I set the passwords to my safe houses, each a variation of her birthday, I didn’t expect she would ever find out about it or that I would have to explain myself to her.
Anya lets me lean on her shoulder as she guides me to the downstairs bathroom. I sit heavily on the side of the bath, and memories flash in my mind of her on my lap, tending to minor cuts on my arm with tenderness and care.
I shove the memories aside, angry and agitated to be this close to her. But I’m the one who came looking for her this afternoon, tracking her phone and watching her lie on the beach. Approaching her when she got up.
If you hadn’t, she would be dead right now, so something good came of it.
At least that eases my mind a bit. She’s safe. She’s unharmed.
I groan loudly when she splashes alcoholic disinfectant onto the wound. Pain shoots through me, and she lets out a satisfied little grunt.
Did she use too much on purpose? Does my pain make her happy?
Her hair falls over her shoulder as she leans forward, and her beautiful scent washes over me. It’s not her usual conditioner, but it still smells lovely on her.
My heart clenches.
I saw her last night, yet this morning I missed her as though she had been gone for months. Even now, when I don’t have her, with her right next to me—I miss her painfully.
Anya is subdued as she works on my injury. She’s lost in her own thoughts, being gentle now, working carefully.
I show her the tape-stitches that she can use to close the wound up after she’s poured a white powder over it to stop the bleeding.
“You really need stitches,” she argues.
“These are stitches,” I say, gesturing at the tape.
“Proper stitches,” she huffs.
Why does she get me snarky with me?She left me.Not the other way around.And I just saved her life.
You’d think I would have earned some kind of gratitude or grace from her.
Anger grows inside me.
Who the hell does she think she is? What gives her the right to treat me like this?
“Why did you leave? What did your note mean?” The words blurt out of me before I have a chance to consider the consequences.
She doesn’t say anything, and they hang heavily in the air between us as she tapes the last bandage in place.
