Page 37 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

Nadya tries to grin. “It’s just a scratch.”

“She lost a lot of blood,” Valentin cuts in. “I didn’t know where else to take her. Traffic was backed up for miles en route to the hospital.”

“I should ground you until you’re fifty!” I roar in panic.

“You can try. But I’m an adult, and there are laws in this country against that sort of thing,” Nadia rolls her head against Valentin’s shoulder.

“Put her down—there, on the couch!” I shout, pointing.

I’m already stripping off my jacket at a frantic pace, my mind running through worst-case scenarios. Fractured spine. Internal bleeding. Concussion. What if it’s worse than it looks?

And then—

“Move,” Yulia says quietly behind me.

I turn, startled. She brushes past me without waiting for permission, her expression already changed. Just moments ago, I had seen her frozen at the sight of Valentin barging through the door with Nadya in his arms, and now? It’s like a switch flipped.

She no longer looks like the wounded, angry woman who hardly spoke to me for days. She looks like she used to—bold, no-nonsense, fucking in charge.

“Put her flat on her back,” she commands Valentin. “Support her head. Legs slightly elevated. Now.”

Valentin obeys immediately.

Yulia kneels beside the couch, her movements quick but careful. “Nadya?” she says gently, pressing her fingers to her wrist. “Can you hear me clearly?”

Nadya blinks up at her. “Wait…who are you?”

My heart begins to race as I notice, just then, Valentin’s eyes widen, recognition drawing in his gaze. Fuck. I haven’t yet told my siblings I got married…And to a Fyodorov, no less.

“I’m a doctor,” Yulia tells her. “And you’re going to be fine, but your ego might take a hit.”

Yulia straightens up, snapping out of her scan with laser focus.

“I need a first aid kit. Big one. Gauze, antiseptic, sutures if you’ve got them, and—” she turns to Valentin, who blinks at her like he’s seeing a ghost, ”—a bag of saline. If there’s an IV stand, bring that too. And gloves. Clean ones.”

Valentin just stands there, still shell-shocked.

“Now, please,” she adds, her tone firm but calm. “We’re wasting time.”

To my shock, my brother—who takes orders from exactly one person in this world, and that’s me—nods and sprints off without question.

I’m still staring at her.

“And you,” she says, spinning toward me, “boil water. Grab towels. A lighter or alcohol to sterilize a pair of scissors. Something sharp. I need to cut her jeans.”

“Cut them?”

Yulia arches an eyebrow. “You want me to peel denim off shredded skin?”

I shake my head, already moving. “Right. I’m on it.”

When I return, she’s slipped off her cardigan and rolled her sleeves to her elbows. Her phone is on the table, flashlight angled upward for focused light. She’s got Nadya talking, asking simple questions in a low, soothing voice.

Valentin bursts back in with an armful of supplies and dumps them on the coffee table. Yulia sifts through as fast as she can.

She slides on gloves like she’s done this a thousand times—which, I suppose, she has. Her hair’s tied up now in a messy knot, a few damp strands curling around her temples. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. I’ve seen men break down at less. But she kneels over Nadya like this is child’s play.

“I’m going to clean the wounds first,” she tells Nadya. “It’s going to sting. A lot.”