Page 9 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Hey…” I step around Trifon slightly, coffee forgotten, pulse jacking into overdrive. “Behind you—”

The first gunshot shatters the night.

My stomach drops as the sound ricochets through the parking lot, hot coffee sloshing down my hand, the cup slipping and smashing against the concrete. Fear crawls down my spine, and my body moves on instinct—duck, cover, find shelter—but strong fingers wrap around my arm before I get the chance.

Trifon yanks me toward him, his other hand already moving, reaching beneath his jacket, gun drawn so fast I barely register it.

“Stay down,” he orders, voice cold steel now, the charming grin obliterated.

The next shot cracks through the air as chaos detonates around us.

Chapter 4 - Trifon

The moment I see those bastards, thanks to the doctor’s warning, I know they’re here for blood.

I can’t believe that those Zakharov idiots are stupid enough to come for me at a hospital, of all places. That, too, after they showed balls sufficient to shoot my brother tonight. I should’ve known they wouldn’t stop there.

I barely have time to react before the first gunshot cracks through the night.

The doctor flinches beside me, her coffee smashing to the ground. She moves like she’s ready to bolt, but I’ve already got my hand around her arm, pulling her in, shielding her body with mine.

Concrete explodes at shoulder height, where her skull was a heartbeat ago.

Her green eyes go wild with panic, and I see her fight-or-flight response kicking in as she tries to fight herself free of my grip.

She doesn’t understand, does she? The bastards attacking us will have her down in seconds.

“Stay down,” I snap, reaching for my gun.

The next shot rings out as I drag her behind the pillar and keep my finger steady on the trigger. Chaos detonates across the lot—people shouting, security ducking for cover, nurses scrambling back inside.

My brothers are supposed to be here. Leonid and Iosif are due to pick up Valentin at any time. Where the fuck are they?

I chance a glance over the hood of the nearest car and scan the lot. Two men in dark windbreakers are using the ER sign as partial cover. Typical Zakharov grunts. They spot me and open up with another round. I duck, grabbing the good doctor by the scruff of her collar and pulling her closer to the ground.

Her body collides with mine, her smaller frame tucked into my chest, her hands braced against me, eyes wide with shock—and heat. She’s trembling, but it’s not all fear. I can feel it—the sharp edge of adrenaline, her pulse hammering through that soft throat, the faintest quake where her hip presses against mine.

“You want to get your head blown off, be my guest,” I growl, my breath grazing the shell of her ear, holding her there with one hand at the nape of her neck, the other gripping my gun. “Otherwise, keep still.”

She glares up at me, chest rising and falling, her breath ragged and warm against my collarbone. Up close, her scent curls through the air. Her fists bunch in my shirt like she’s debating fighting me off—but she stays put.

Smart girl.

Just as I shift to fire again, headlights sweep across the lot—the unmistakable roar of engines cutting through the night.

Leonid’s black SUV skids to a halt near the ER entrance. Iosif jumps out, weapon ready, returning fire without hesitation.

Backup.

Finally.

But even with the bullets flying, my awareness stays locked on the woman practically molded to my chest, soft curves pressed tight against every hard line of my body, her green eyes still burning with fight.

Fuck me.

Wrong time, wrong place—but suddenly I want her pressed against me for a hell of a lot more than survival.

Later.