Page 38 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Yay,” Nadya croaks.

Yulia cracks open the saline and pours a steady stream over the denim covering Nadya’s thigh, soaking it through. She waits a beat, then picks up the scissors and slides them under the wet fabric, carefully cutting a clean line through her jeans. The blood-darkened denim parts easily.

Nadya winces, but Yulia murmurs soft encouragements as she exposes the injury.

“Not too deep,” she mutters, more to herself than us. “Torn skin, muscle scrape. We can handle this.”

She repeats the process on Nadya’s arm. I swallow hard, watching her steady hands work like a surgeon. Like a goddess.

“IV next,” she says, twisting toward Valentin. “Hold the bag up high—hook it over that curtain rod if you need to. Trifon, keep pressure here.”

She guides my hand to the edge of Nadya’s thigh.

Yulia slides the IV needle in, taping it down, then adjusts the flow.

Blood, sweat, gauze, vodka-soaked towels sterilized by fire—all of it blends into a blur. But her voice stays calm, cool, anchored.

“You’re doing great, Nadya. Just a few stitches here.” Her hands are steady, her touch light. “Do you always race motorcycles, or is this a new hobby?”

Nadya, more alert now, manages a weak smile. “Since I was sixteen. Dad would’ve killed me if he knew.”

“And yet here we are,” I mutter, earning a glare from Yulia.

“Not helping,” she says shortly before turning back to Nadya. “I’m guessing you’re the family daredevil?”

“Someone has to be,” Nadya replies, wincing as the needle goes through her skin again. “Five older brothers who think they’re in charge of everything. Gets boring.”

Yulia’s laugh is unexpected. “I get that. Three older brothers myself. They think they know everything.”

“They’re the worst,” Nadya agrees, and somehow, impossibly, they’re bonding while Yulia literally sews my sister back together.

She works methodically, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging. The whole time, she speaks to Nadya in that same gentle voice—so at odds with the fire she spits at me whenever we talk.

I exchange glances with Valentin, who looks equally baffled by this development.

When she finally finishes cleaning and wrapping the wounds, she sits back on her heels, her gloves soaked, her shoulders tight.

“She’ll be fine,” Yulia says, glancing between us. “She got lucky.”

Valentin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re a damn miracle.”

Yulia laughs, removing her gloves. “No. I’m just trained.”

But when she looks down at Nadya—brushing hair back from her clammy forehead—I see something that isn’t in any textbook.

Gentleness. Care. Just heart.

It shouldn’t surprise me. She’s a doctor. But it does.

Because most people who get near Nadya either want to charm her… or hurt her to get to me.

But Yulia? She’s just… helping.

An hour later, Nadya’s patched up, resting on the sofa with color returning to her cheeks. The immediate danger has passed, leaving all of us slightly dazed in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.

“Thank you,” Nadya says, looking up at Yulia with open admiration. “You’re amazing.”

Yulia shrugs, her cheeks coloring slightly at the praise. “Just doing my job.”