Page 89 of Cinderella and the Daddy

He ends the call and tosses the phone onto the seat, then reaches over to take my hand. The touch is reassuring after everything we've just been through.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine. You're not."

I'm getting a better look at him now. There's blood on his left arm and covering his shirt, more than I initially realized.

"I'm okay."

"Are you shot?"

He ignores me.

"You're going to the hospital," I say firmly. I lean forward and tap the driver on his arm. "Hospital."

He looks in the rearview mirror to check with Luka.

"Luka, you are going to the hospital," I demand.

"Fine," he mutters, but I can see the exhaustion starting to catch up with him now that the adrenaline is fading.

There is no way I’m letting him die. Not when we just started a war.

25

LUKA

The hospital emergency room smells. I hate hospitals—too many memories of cleaning up after jobs gone wrong. There have been too many times I watched good men die on tables just like these.

"I'm fine, Luka," she insists for the third time, her hand pressed against my good shoulder as a nurse bustles around us with paperwork. "You're the one who's bleeding."

The bullet wound throbs like hell, but it's superficial. What's eating at me is the need to know for certain that our child survived tonight's chaos. She says she’s fine, but the stress can’t be good for her or the baby.

I need a doctor to tell me that everything is okay before I can breathe normally again.

"Humor me," I tell her, catching the eye of a passing resident. "Doctor. Now."

The young man takes one look at me in my blood-stained clothes and nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to comply.

"Sir, if you could just fill out these forms?—"

"My woman needs to be examined." The words come out as a growl. Blood drips from my saturated sleeve onto his pristine paperwork, and I see him track its path with widening eyes.

"I... I need to follow protocol. Insurance information, medical history?—"

I lean forward, letting him see exactly who he's dealing with. "Dr. Morrison. Chief of staff. Tell him Luka Markovic is here, and if my pregnant woman doesn't have an obstetrician in the next five minutes, I'll be discussing his hospital's emergency response times with the mayor at tomorrow's charity dinner."

The resident goes pale. Everyone knows the mayor's biggest campaign donor has a Russian accent and a reputation for getting what he wants.

"I'll... I'll get Dr. Morrison immediately."

"You do that." I sink into the nearest chair, fighting off the gray creeping into my vision. "And get someone to stop this bleeding while you're at it. I'm getting blood on your expensive floors."

"Luka—" Cindy protests.

"No arguments." I take her hand, threading our fingers together. "Please. For me."

Something in my tone must reach her because she nods, squeezing my fingers in understanding. I’m pretty sure that’s the only time I’ve used the word please.