Page 5 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

My pulse roars, but it’s not panic anymore—it’s focus. She’s right. My brother’s life is at risk while I stand here, yelling like a lunatic.

Think,Trifon.

I promised my father, standing over his deathbed, that I’d protect them. All of them. Valentin and my other brothers. The girls. Every stubborn, reckless Yuri that carries our name. My old man made me swear it with his dying breath.

It’s the weight of the entire empire pressing down on my spine that nearly let it drown me in rage tonight.

But this woman pulls me back from the edge with nothing but logic and that stubborn glare.

“If your brother loses any more blood,” she continues, cool as ice, “things can get complicated. Let’s handle this first. You want to yell? You can do that later.”

A flicker of reluctant respect burns low in my gut. I hate it—but I hate the idea of losing Valentin more.

“If anything happens to him...”

“Nothing’s going to happen to him that we can prevent,” she says firmly. “Now, let’s move.”

I force a sharp nod.

The other irritating doctor takes over. I still can’t believe he’s her superior. In what world does that make sense? That man lacked zero fucking people skills.

I watch as she follows his instructions, carefully double-checks the gurney before leading the team out. At the doors, she turns back, just once, and when she meets my eyes, I see her avert her gaze, as though she fears I might burn her.

I watch as they bring Valentin in, wheel him in through the trauma bay, through doors I’m not allowed past. I stand outside, checking my watch every few minutes.

Precious minutes of not knowing if my brother lives or dies while these incompetent doctors take their sweet time.

Just then, my phone rings. I don’t want to waste time answering it. My head hurts, but when I see it’s my youngest brother Miron, I pick up.

“Any news?”

“Any news?” he asks the moment I answer.

“Nothing yet,” I say with frustration. “They’re still working on him.”

“The men are ready to go hunt down those swines,” he tells me. “Just say the word.”

“Not yet, Miron. Wait until we know about Valentin, and no one’s attacking the Zakharovs unless I lead the charge.”

“Fine,” my trigger-hungry brother sounds utterly heartbroken.

I end the call and continue pacing. Five more minutes pass. Then ten. My patience wears thinner with each second.

What the hell are the doctors doing? Why the fuck is it taking so long? I have half the mind to go in there and sockthat Dr. Chen in the fucking eye. I would have beaten him unconscious if not for the doctor who intervened. The woman. Dr. Fyodorov, she said. She took control, cut through the bullshit, and got Valentin the help he needed.

I pray she’s the one overlooking whatever is going on in there.

Now I’m stuck waiting, with nothing but my rage for company.

Another fifteen minutes pass by. “Excuse me, Sir?”

I turn to find a nurse standing a safe distance away. Like I might bite if she steps any closer.

“Your brother is stable,” she says, eyes flickering to my bloodstained hands and then quickly away. “The bullet was a through-and-through. Missed major organs. He’s been stitched up and given a blood transfusion and some IV. He’ll need to be on antibiotics and come in for some follow-up, but there is no need for surgery.”

The relief floods through me so strong, I almost fall to my knees. Valentin is okay, thank god. Now, I can think.

“Thank you,” I say, gruffly, before turning away.