Page 63 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

I’m a doctor.

And in this place, I finally begin to feel like myself again.

I try not to think about what that says about me—that I’m thriving in a clinic funded by blood money and am slowly becoming comfortable in Trifon’s world.

And yet… I am.

This work grounds me in a way I didn’t expect, and that terrifies me because every time I remember how furious and helpless I felt when I was dragged into Trifon’s life, I want to scream.

He stole my future.

He stole my choices.

And yet, he didn’t have to give me this.

He could’ve kept me under lock and key until the ink on the marriage certificate dried and his conscience quieted.

But he didn’t.

Of course, he built this place for his people, but he put it inmyhands and trusted me in the process. And no matter how hard I try to hate him… that part? That part won’t leave me alone.

I tell myself I’m still angry and that I still despise him for what he’s taken from me. But deep down, I know the truth. Some part of me doesn’t just respect him for what he’s given me. Some part of me is starting toadmirehim.

It’s reached a stage now that sometimes, when the door opens, I hope it’s him.

It’s been a long day when I check my watch and realize it’s nearly eight. Trifon texted earlier about picking me up for dinner at eight-thirty. I’ve just enough time to clean up and change out of my scrubs. I head to the small office at the back of the clinic, where I keep a change of clothes.

Just as I’m pulling on a simple black dress, Marina knocks.

“Doctor, one more patient.”

I suppress a sigh. “Can it wait until tomorrow?”

“It’s a young kid with a fever and a bad throat. The mother is very worried.”

Children are my weakness, and Marina knows it. “Alright. Send them in.”

The mother hovers anxiously when I examine the sweet four-year-old girl. It’s nothing serious, just a typical virus, but Itake the time to explain instructions and medications, ensuring the mother understands when to worry and when not to.

I’m so focused that I don’t notice him until I turn to wash my hands.

Trifon leans against the doorframe, watchingmewith a lazy little smile that gets my heart racing. His jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up, and his tie is loose around his neck. Still, somehow, he’s looking impossibly put-together at the end of a day when I feel like I’ve been run over.

My heart does that stupid little skip it always does when I see him now.

“You’re late,” he says, but there’s no edge to it.

I glance at my watch. Nine-fifteen. “Sorry. Emergency.”

He looks at the little girl, who’s now cuddled in her mother’s lap, and his expression softens. “Not a problem.”

The mother’s eyes widen when she notices him. She straightens, smooths her daughter’s hair, and gives him a respectful nod. “Pakhan,” she murmurs.

The word still makes my skin prickle. The reminder of who he is.

“Take care of your daughter, Irina,” he tells her gently. “Dmitri would want her to get her rest.”

She nods as I usher them out with a reassuring smile.