Page 46 of My Dark Horse Prince

I sigh.

“Hubert?” Kris asks.

“He’s from the United States,” the nurse says.

“What’s he doing here?” Aleks looks suspicious.

“After his wife left him, he came on holiday,” she says. “He never went back.” She drops her voice. “Let’s just say he appreciates Russian women and Russian vodka.”

Grigoriy stands up. “We need to find a new surgeon.”

“Only on the weekends, I assure you,” the nurse says. “He’s very professional. We’re lucky to have him here.”

His nostrils flare, but he sits down. “You want a surgeon who’s from some tiny country that threw a tantrum when its mother imposed a few taxes?”

Kris snorts.

“We have a lot of things to talk about over the next few days about how the world has changed since 1917.” Aleks pats Grigoriy’s knee. “The United States isn’t small anymore, for one.”

Grigoriy shakes his head.

And while they bicker, I’m wheeled off to be poked, prodded, scanned, and x-rayed within an inch of my life. But eventually, we do work our way back to the exam room.

“—that ridiculous sport where men ran round in tiny shorts caught on? Everyone plays it?” Grigoriy rolls his eyes. “Impossible.”

“It’s the most popular sport in Russia,” Aleks says. “I had trouble believing it, too.”

“And the church is just okay with it?” Grigoriy looks incredulous.

“The church leadership was, apparently, eliminated when the communists took over.” Aleks looks baffled as well.

“The doctor will be in shortly.” The nurse wheels me into the room, pivots on her heel, and leaves.

“How much did you pay for this appointment?” Kris asks. “Because I’m beginning to think you were ripped off. We’ve been in this room for two hours.”

Aleks whips out his phone, presumably to raise some Cain, when the door opens.

A short man with almost no hair on his head breezes through and grabs a stool. “I’m Dr. Hubert,” he says in awkwardly accented Russian. “Sorry to make me wait.” Clearly, although he’s hopefully a competent doctor, he’s yet to master the language here. And he has yet to look up from the tablet he’s holding, either. He swipes, and swipes, and zooms in on something, squints, and swipes again.

Aleks clears his throat.

“How nice to meet you,” Kris says.

If he heard either of them, he doesn’t show any sign of it. He keeps on flipping through things, entirely intent upon his tablet. Finally, he looks up. “Alright. I review scans.”

“We all speak English,” Kris says in a clear, American accent. She sounds so much like her mom when she switches to English that it makes my heart twinge a bit.

“Oh, praise be.” The doctor tosses the tablet down on the counter behind him. “You have no idea how nice it is when I find patients who do.” He sighs. “I’m afraid the damage from whatever percussive impact you suffered is quite extensive. I didn’t really need your office’s work up, but I did want the old scans from before your accident.” He wheels toward me quickly, and I shy back.

It’s impossible to move away quickly in a wheelchair.

But suddenly there’s a brick wall between us. A very Russian, very threatening brick wall. When Grigoriy reaches for my hand, I yank it away. “No flinging my surgeon around,” I hiss in Russian. “He just startled me. Get out of his way.”

Grigoriy scowls, but he moves.

The doctor cranes his neck to look up at him. “You’re the husband, I assume. I understand being protective of your wife, but I assure you that I’m the best doctor for at least two thousand miles. Maybe more.”

“He’s not my husband,” I say.

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