Page 42 of Crystal Wrath (Rostov Bratva #1)

ELENA

The hospital smells like antiseptic, and everything around me is cold and white.

Even in a city like Miami, where neon signs pulse above crowded sidewalks and the ocean breeze softens the heat's edges, the sterile corridors of Jackson Memorial feel disconnected from it all.

The fluorescent lights bleach the walls in a way that makes time feel frozen, like a photograph trapped mid-development, never fully coming to life.

Relief floods through me after days of uncertainty, not knowing if Nick has finally turned the corner from critical to stable. The sterile white walls seem less oppressive now, each step echoing off the polished floors with purpose rather than dread.

Renat walks beside me, his hand on the small of my back in a gesture that's both protective and possessive.

The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse, grounding me in a way I didn't expect.

I don't lean into it, but I also don't move away.

I'm too focused on the good news we received this morning, on the fact that Nick has been moved out of the ICU and into a regular room.

The doctors finally cleared him for normal visiting hours, which means he's stable enough to have real conversations instead of the brief monitored visits.

The medical wing feels different from the ICU.

Less intensive and more hopeful, like a place where people come to recover rather than fight for their lives.

The beeping machines and harsh fluorescent lighting have been replaced by softer illumination and the quiet murmur of normal hospital activity.

This is where people get better, where families plan discharge dates instead of memorial services.

Two of Renat's men hang back as we approach the medical wing, their dark suits making them look somewhat out of place in the more casual atmosphere of the recovery ward.

They position themselves near the elevator bank, close enough to respond if needed but far enough away to avoid drawing attention from the medical staff.

Renat approaches the nurses' station with the same quiet confidence he brings to every situation, and whatever he tells the nurse there gets us directed toward Nick's new room without any complications.

The hallway stretches out before us. Patient rooms line both sides, most with their doors open, revealing glimpses of people on the mend. I hear quiet conversations, the rustle of newspapers, and the sound of television programs playing at low volumes. This is what hope sounds like.

Nick is in Room 314. The sight of him sitting up in bed, alert and focused, sends a wave of relief through me that I wasn't expecting.

He looks so much better than the last time I saw him in the ICU.

There's actual color in his cheeks now. While he still has bandaging around his abdomen and an IV in his arm, he's holding a tablet and scrolling through what looks like news articles.

The familiar sight of his reading glasses perched on his nose makes everything feel more normal.

“Elena,” he rasps, his voice rough with pain and morphine, the syllables catching in his throat like sandpaper.

I rush to his side, my heels clicking against the polished floor, and grasp his hand without hesitation. His fingers are cold, thinner than they should be. “Hey. Don't you dare scare me like that again.”

He manages a broken laugh that turns into a cough halfway through. “Wasn't part of the plan.”

I blink hard, willing the tears back to where they belong.

My throat burns with the effort of keeping my voice steady.

His hand is cold, but the pressure he returns when I squeeze it tells me he's still the same stubborn man who used to bark edits at me like he was throwing grenades across the newsroom.

Still the mentor who saw something in me when I was fresh out of college with more determination than skill.

Renat stays back near the doorway, silent as a shadow, his arms folded across his chest, those hazel eyes taking in every corner of the room with the systematic thoroughness of someone who has survived by noticing details others miss.

Always assessing, always calculating angles, exits, and potential threats.

Even here, surrounded by the controlled chaos of modern medicine, he can't turn off that part of himself that remains constantly vigilant.

I watch him for a moment, studying the way his jaw tenses slightly as his gaze sweeps across the window, the door, and the medical equipment.

The past few weeks have revealed sides of Renat that I never expected to see, layers beneath the polished exterior of the successful businessman.

But right now, in this sterile room, he's every inch the pakhan his father raised him to be.

“You should've seen what they did to the office,” I whisper, brushing the edge of the sheet near Nick's arm, needing the simple contact to ground myself in the moment. “It looked like a war zone.”

The memory hits me fresh, the way the newsroom had been turned inside out, desks overturned, papers scattered like fallen leaves, computer monitors smashed against the walls.

Someone had taken their time destroying everything we'd built, every story we'd chased, every truth we'd tried to uncover.

The methodical nature of the destruction had been almost as disturbing as the violence itself.

“Good,” Nick breathes, and there's satisfaction in his voice despite the pain medication slurring his words slightly. “Means we were getting close.”

“You almost died,” I snap, unable to keep the anger out of my voice. “Don't talk about it like it was worth it.”

His hand squeezes mine again, stronger this time, and I can see a flash of the old Nick in his bloodshot eyes. “You always were a fighter.”

Behind me, I hear the subtle vibration of Renat's phone buzzing against the fabric of his suit jacket.

The sound cuts through the quiet hum of medical equipment.

I glance back at him, watching as his expression shifts almost imperceptibly.

His jaw tenses, and those expressive eyes narrow as he reads whatever message has appeared on his screen.

“I’ll step out,” he murmurs.

Then he meets my eyes, and for just a moment, I see something that might be concern glinting in those hazel depths.

“I won't be long,” he says softly.

I nod, understanding that whatever business requires his attention, it's the type that shouldn't be conducted in a hospital room. He slips into the hallway, and the door hisses shut behind him.

Nick lets out a low sigh, shifting uncomfortably on the narrow mattress. The movement sends a ripple of pain across his features, and I can see him fighting to maintain his composure. “Elena, any chance you could grab me some water? These ice chips taste like regret.”

I manage a smile, the first genuine one I've felt in hours. “Yeah. I'll see what I can do.”

I rise from the uncomfortable visitor's chair, giving his hand a light squeeze. Getting water is something concrete I can do for him. Something normal in a situation that feels anything but.

I move toward the hallway, leaving the steady beep of Nick's heart monitor behind.

I see Renat at the end of the hallway, speaking quietly on his phone.

But the hallway feels strangely hushed. The usual hospital sounds seem muffled here as if the burden of so much suffering has absorbed the everyday noise of life continuing around it.

I pass an elderly woman in a wheelchair, her silver hair perfectly styled despite her obvious frailty, being pushed by a nurse whose expression remains professionally neutral.

A young man with bandaged hands sits in another chair, staring blankly into space.

At the same time, a different nurse checks his IV line with clinical precision.

Just ahead, another nurse rounds the corner from a side hallway I hadn't noticed before.

She's pushing a tray cart loaded with medical supplies, her scrubs navy blue instead of the pale green worn by most of the other staff I've seen.

Her brown hair is tucked into a neat bun, secured with bobby pins that shine under the fluorescent light as she moves.

Her name tag is flipped backward against her chest, and her expression doesn't shift when she sees me approaching.

There's no softness in her features, no warmth.

No recognition of shared humanity that I expect from someone who works in a place like this.

Just a calculated emptiness that makes something cold settle in my stomach.

“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my tone polite despite the unease crawling up my spine. “Will you point me toward where I can get a cup of water for Room 314?”

She tilts her head slightly, studying me with an intensity that seems disproportionate to my simple request. Her eyes are dark, almost black in the lighting, and they linger on my face longer than I feel comfortable.

“Come with me. I'll show you,” she replies, offering a smile that feels more like a rehearsed gesture than genuine warmth.

I hesitate, just for a second. Something about her manner sets off alarm bells in the part of my brain that's kept me alive through years of investigative journalism. But I need water for Nick, and she's offering help, and maybe I'm just paranoid after everything that's happened.

I follow her down a side hallway that branches off the main corridor.

It's quieter here. There are no nurses rushing between rooms, no monitors beeping their electronic lullabies, no family members having hushed conversations about prognosis and hope.

Just echoing footsteps and an overhead light that flickers faintly above a utility room door, throwing unstable shadows on the pale green walls.

She pushes the door open with her hip, the metal handle reflecting the fluorescent light. “In here.”