Page 3 of The Russian’s Forced Bride (Kamarov Bratva #2)

Had the hit been for me? I wondered, watching as our men now lifted Jaxon’s body off the floor while the sound of sirens blared in the distance.

“It’s a message.” Oskar’s voice, though quiet, cut through the chaos around us as his eyes shifted from Matvey to me.

“And what’s the fucking message supposed to mean, Uncle?” Matvey asked, obvious irritation in his voice as his dark green eyes flicked toward the fire still ravaging Whitmore’s car.

In response to Matvey’s question, Oskar shrugged with a thoughtful expression and said, “We’re about to find out soon enough.”

***

Hospitals are for the damned.

It carried an atmosphere of death that clung to every corner like oxygen in the air. And although most people survived their visits to one, I had only ever seen the life leave the eyes of those who had been admitted.

The unpleasant smell of disinfectant and bleach hung in the air like a ghost, haunting every corner and invading my nostrils as I leaned my back against one of the chairs in the waiting room.

The room, though large and empty, seemed to close in on me, with its gray-toned walls blurring from my peripheral vision. The bright ceiling lights glare into my eyes, making me squint in discomfort as I wait for the doctor’s verdict on whether Jaxon Whitmore would live or die.

Uncle and Matvey had asked me to wait in their place as they began their investigations on whoever had been behind planting the explosive underneath Whitmore’s car.

And though I had no feelings regarding the man himself, I couldn’t help but reel from the mystery behind the attack.

A voice in my head kept telling me the attack had been intended for me, but I didn’t want it to be true.

Sighing, I buried my face in my hands as the ticking of my pocket watch echoed through the room. It was almost midnight, and the only reason I was still allowed to wait at the hospital was because I was part of the Bratva, and the Bratva owned the hospital.

But time was running out, and I had other things back in New York to attend to.

The glass doors of the hospital suddenly swung open, drawing my attention as I slowly raised my head to see a woman stepping into the room.

A fresh scent of vanilla followed her as her heels clicked on the marbled floor, her vibrant emerald-like eyes scanning anxiously.

Her beauty was exotic, like a Roman sculpture that glistened in the morning sun.

A black leather trench coat was layered over her outfit, showcasing her luxurious background. Her fiery ginger hair, resembling a blazing sun, flowed in waves down her back.

I found myself curious about her as our eyes locked intensely for a moment before she made her way over to me, clearly distraught as she heaved heavily, her eyes bloodshot with unshed tears.

“Are you…are you here for Jaxon Whitmore?” she asked, voice steady and soft, yet underneath it was a slight crack, almost unnoticeable.

I now rose from the chair, towering over her slender form, and she inched back instinctively.

I nodded in response to her question, and she sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly before she quickly straightened up like a statue.

“I’m Arlette Whitmore, his daughter,” she told me, and my eyes widened slightly in surprise.

She was the same woman who had been engaged to Matvey. I attended their engagement ceremony, but I hadn’t bothered to catch a glimpse of her since I figured she wasn’t worth the trouble.

But something about her piqued my interest.

Is it her beauty? I wondered, tilting my head as I admired her delicate features.

She extended her hand to me, waiting for an introduction.

“Rafael Kamarov,” I said to her, offering a polite smile as I took her hand in mine, an invisible spark flowing through my veins as our skin touched.

She quickly withdrew her hand as if she had been burned, a glare replacing her previously saddened expression, and I figured it had something to do with me being a Kamarov.

“He was with your people. You caused this,” she claimed, shaking her head in anger. “It doesn’t make any sense that he’s the only one who’s been hurt.”

Her voice was raw with pain, a feeling I couldn’t relate to, but I was certainly offended by her baseless accusations. If anything, the Bratva had offered him protection for as long as he lived.

His death would be collateral damage.

“If the Bratva had caused his attack, I wouldn’t be here wasting my time,” I told her. “Investigations are underway to find whoever was, but in the meantime, I suggest you don’t throw baseless accusations.”

She seemed taken aback by my response. Her lips quivered, as if she was holding back from yelling at me.

It almost made me smile to see her face redden in anger, but I kept a somewhat caring facade even though I didn’t give a damn about her father’s condition.

She then scoffed at me in disbelief. “You’re insufferable.”

This time, I did smile. “I’m only telling the truth. You should be thanking us. Your father could’ve died way before now.”

Her eyes flicked right as the door to Jaxon Whitmore’s hospital room swung open, and without giving me a second look, she hurried down the hallway to meet the doctor while I stood still, my eyes still fixed on her.

I found her interesting, and I rarely found anything interesting.

I could still smell her in the room, a teasing scent that tickled my nostrils.

But as interesting as she was, I also found her annoying and was glad she was finally gone.

I returned to my seat, watching the doctor talk to her and seeing her emotions break down with each word he said before she went into the room.

I leaned my head against the chair, closing my eyes for a moment, and there she was, like an intoxicating mist clouding my senses.

It irritated me.

But like a mantra, I found myself repeating her name.

Arlette. Arlette Whitmore.

Fuck .