Page 68 of My Dark Horse Prince

He finally releases Aleks’s hand and leans back, kicking up one heel to press it flat against the wall. He’s trying to act tough, but he looks worried.

That makes me stupidly happy.

It’s been a long time since anyone other than Kris, my mom, or Adriana cared what happened to me. I love them all, but I’m not even a top priority for any of them. It feels nice to have someone put me first.

Aleks lowers his hand slowly until he can wrap it around my forearm, and then he inhales and exhales slowly. “This is going to be fast, and it’s going to be uncomfortable. I wish I could have done it while you were still unconscious, but they’d never have let me in.”

Uncomfortable isn’t promising.

“Kris, you make sure to distract anyone who comes this way, and Grigoriy, your job is to physically stop them if it comes to that.”

Before I have a chance to object, Aleks tightens his hand, and it starts. A thousand little people with hammers are banging on the bones inside my leg. And one person with a nail gun is giving them some places to focus on. I open my mouth to cry out, but then I think of the sleeping man, the nurses coming and going, and the woman with her son a few beds down.

I bite down on my sob, and just a few moments later, the pain just. . .disappears.

Aleks looks like he might pass out at any moment. The blood has drained from his face. Even his lips look pale, and when he stands, he literally sways like a tree in a tempest. “Whoa, there,” I say. “Maybe sit a little longer.”

“I’m going to take him to the car,” Kris says. “I have some juice and snacks out there, and no one has to watch him looking like this while he recovers.”

“Recovers?” I struggle to a halfway seated position. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s taxing to use your powers in that way,” Grigoriy says. “It depletes us.”

“No one told me—”

Kris pats my hand. “It’s fine. He wanted to help. And the good news is, the second they release you, you should be fine to walk and do whatever they said you’ll be doing when the recovery is done. That’s our real gift.” This time, her smile’s genuine. “Not the surgery, but the lack of a grueling and miserable healing and rehab period.”

It’s a pretty darn good gift. A moment later, they’re gone and Grigoriy takes the chair next to me. His hand slides slowly over mine.

“I think my leg’s about as good as it’s going to get,” I say. “I probably don’t need comforting.” But I don’t pull my hand away. His huge fingers wrapped around mine feel too nice.

“You know, I came to watch because I couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to you,” he says. “I wasn’t sure whether I would be able to save you—I’ve never had something like this happen, with a surgery and possible complications—but I hoped. But that doubt left me much more distressed than I expected.” His nostrils flare.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I think the surgery was a success. I mean, maybe it’s not better than before, but at least my leg will be stable. And thanks to your friend Aleks, I won’t even have to suffer through the weeks of healing and misery. I can start getting back into shape today.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Grigoriy says. “Even accelerated, that kind of healing takes its toll. You and Aleksandr will both be very tired.”

As if his words caused it, a wave of exhaustion rolls over me. I lean back against the pillows of the recovery room bed. “I do feel like I could take a nap.” I realize that if I do, he’ll be stuck here, and Aleksandr and Kristiana will, too. They all drove up here with me, and they’ve already been waiting for quite some time, I imagine. “Or I could get to the car now, if you help me, and then I can take a nap once I’m home.”

“There’s no rush. Rest here for a bit, and when you wake up, we’ll get you home.” His hand’s still on mine, and something about his presence lets me rest better than I imagined.

I think about protesting—I’m sure they’re all eager to leave—but I am so tired. The old woman’s just getting to her feet, with the young man helping her gather up her things, when I drift off.

Angry voices and the tightening of Grigoriy’s hand on mine wakes me. I’m bleary again, almost like I’m just waking up from the surgery. But I know where I am—still in the hospital recovery room—and I can feel and hear Grigoriy beside me.

“I already told you,” he says. “I’m not leaving. Not without Mirdza.”

I force myself to sit up. “What’s going on?” I look around the room, noticing that the other patients have gone. The old woman left, as did the middle-aged man. No new surgeries ended either, apparently.

But then, who’s Grigoriy talking to? I crane my neck to look around him. He’s shifted forward so his body’s mostly blocking me from whoever entered, but I can make out several men, and I can clearly see the one in the very front.

His beard is closely trimmed, with just a bit of grey. His eyes are flinty, and his hard gaze is focused on me. “I’m not going to ask again,” Yevginiy says. “Leave this room, or you’ll become collateral damage.”

Grigoriy snorts.

“You may think you’re an impressive fighter.” Yevginiy smiles. “You may even be able to take me, though I doubt it. I didn’t get here by losing to tough guys. But even if you could defeat me, did you forget that I came with friends?” He tosses his head and his men step closer.

There are seven of them.

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