Page 50 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

I pulled into my building, took the stairs two at a time, and shoved through my door with enough force to make it bang against the wall.

“Cassandra!” My voice came out raw, furious, barely controlled.

She was sitting in the living room, curled up on the edge of the couch like she was trying to make herself smaller. Invisible.

Her face was pale—too pale. Her hands were trembling in her lap.

She looked up when I said her name, her lips parting like she was about to say something. But the words died halfway out, strangled before they could form.

And then her eyes rolled back.

She crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, boneless and terrifying.

“Cassandra!”

I dropped everything—the anger, the fury, the accusations burning on my tongue—and lunged forward, catching her mid-fall. Her body was limp in my arms, her skin burning like she was on fire from the inside out.

Her breathing was shallow. Too shallow.

“Shit. Shit.Shit.”

I scooped her up, her head lolling against my chest, and grabbed my keys with one hand. Didn’t bother locking the door. Didn’t bother thinking. Just moved.

I drove like hell, weaving through traffic, running red lights, my pulse hammering so loud I could barely hear anything else. She didn’t wake up. Didn’t move. Just lay there against the passenger seat, fragile and terrifyingly still.

“Stay with me,” I muttered, glancing at her every few seconds. “Come on, kitten. Stay with me.”

I screeched into the Bratva hospital lot, barely putting the car in park before I was out and carrying her through the doors.

“I need a doctor!” I shouted. “Now!”

A nurse appeared instantly, took one look at Cassandra’s unconscious form, and motioned for a gurney. I laid her down carefully, my hands shaking now, and watched as they wheeled her away.

“Sir, you need to stay here,” the nurse said, trying to guide me toward the waiting area.

“Like hell I do.”

But she was already gone, disappearing behind swinging doors that I wasn’t allowed to follow through.

I stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving, feeling like I was being torn apart from the inside.

Minutes crawled by. Or maybe hours. I couldn’t tell.

I paced. Sat. Stood. Paced again. My mind wouldn’t shut off, wouldn’t stop replaying the dock, her face, the way she’d collapsed like her body had just given up.

Finally, the doors opened.

A doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, expression neutral. “Mr. Kamarov?”

I crossed the distance in two strides. “Is she okay?”

“She’s stable now.” The doctor nodded. “Severe dehydration, stress-induced exhaustion, and a high fever. We’ve got her on fluids and antibiotics.”

Relief crashed over me like a wave. “Can I see her?”

“In a moment.” The doctor hesitated, glanced at his clipboard, then back at me. “There’s something else you should know.”

My stomach dropped. “What?”