Page 58 of Toxic Temptation (Krayev Bratva #1)

VESPER

I burst through the emergency doors and slam directly into what feels like a brick wall.

Except this brick wall smells like expensive cologne and the syrup from Luka’s breakfast.

“Kovan.” Relief surges through me so fast I think I might collapse. “You’re alive.”

Those green eyes find mine, and he winks. “Takes more than a few bullets to put me down.”

His grip on my arm is firm—too firm—as he tries to steer me back toward the building. I resist, needing to look at him, needing to confirm he’s really okay.

“Did anyone ever tell you that when shots are fired, you’re supposed to run away from them?” he asks.

“Pavel called. He said you were here. I had to?—”

“You had to what ?” he snarls. “Run toward gunfire?”

I don’t have an answer for that. At least not one that makes sense.

He tries to guide us through the doors, but they won’t budge. Not even when he wraps a hand around the handle and yanks hard enough for the tendons in his forearm to bulge like tension cables.

“Lockdown protocol,” I explain. “No movement between units until the situation is contained.”

He mutters something under his breath and guides me into an empty operating room instead. “Sit down. Breathe.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking.”

I look down at my hands. He’s right. They’re trembling so badly I couldn’t hold a scalpel if I tried.

Kovan turns away and starts speaking rapid Russian into his phone. I catch Pavel’s name but nothing else. When he hangs up and faces me again, I finally notice the dark stain spreading across his white shirt.

“Oh my… God, Kovan—you’re bleeding.”

He glances down like he’s just noticing, too. “It’s nothing serious.”

“Let me see.”

“Vesper—”

“I’m a doctor!” I cry out, voice shrill in a way it never is when I’m at work. “And you’re hurt. Let me look at it.”

He sighs and shrugs off his jacket. The blood has soaked through his shirt. The sight of it sends my heart careening out of control.

“Sit on the table and take your shirt off,” I order, already moving toward the supply cabinet.

“You’re going to extreme lengths to get me undressed again,” he teases.

“Are you seriously making jokes right now?” I squeak out. “You have a bullet wound and you’re making jokes ?”

“It’s just a graze.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” I return, dump my tools next to him, and start unbuttoning his shirt with hands that won’t stop shaking.

I’m still waiting for my doctor’s head to kick in. I’m waiting for the cool numbness of the job to take over so that I can do what I do best: save the people that need saving.

Except I can’t seem to find my doctor’s head. The cool numbness that I’ve come to rely on doesn’t seem interested in making an appearance.

“You need stitches,” I say, examining the wound. It’s deeper than he’s letting on.

“Then stitch me up, Doc. Make it pretty while you’re at it. I’ve got enough scars already.”

The casual way he says it—like this is normal, like he gets shot every Tuesday and goes to get a fucking latte afterward—makes something snap inside me.

“Stop,” I spit angrily. “Stop acting like this is no big deal. Stop pretending this is normal.”

“It is normal, Vesper. For me, this is nothing.”

The simple honesty of it hurts. Out of nowhere, I’m shaking, pale, sweaty, nauseous. I turn away just in time, barely making it to the corner before I’m sick all over the floor.

I heave until there’s nothing left, then wipe my mouth with my sleeve and force myself to stand up straight.

When I turn back around, Kovan has picked up the suture needle.

“What are you doing?” I balk.

“You’re in no condition to?—”

“Like hell am I letting you do this.” I snatch the needle from his hands. “You can’t stitch yourself up.”

“That’s normal, too, Vesper. All of this is normal.”

The thought of him alone somewhere, bleeding and taking care of his own wounds, makes my chest tight. “I haven’t numbed the area yet,” I warn him.

He shrugs. “I’m good. Adrenaline’s better than lidocaine anyway.”

My hand hovers over the wound. “Kovan?—”

“Go ahead.” He sounds gentler now. “I trust you.”

Those three words steady my hands more than any medical training ever could.

He talks me through it, even though I could do this in my sleep. His voice is calm, reassuring, like he’s the one taking care of me instead of the other way around.

This is fucking rookie work. I should be able to do this with my eyes closed. Hell, I probably could do this with my eyes closed.

So why the hell can’t I get my head together right now?

The answer comes to me as though my dad is standing right beside me, whispering into my ear.

This is why doctors don’t operate on their loved ones, Vezzy. You’re too close to the situation. You’re too close to him.

When I finish the last stitch, I step back and the full reality hits me.

He could have died today.

If that bullet had been two inches to the left, or if he’d lost too much blood, or if a dozen other things had gone wrong, he could have died.

And I would have had to stand over another body. Say goodbye to another person I?—

The thought stops me cold.

Another person I love.

That’s what this is. What I’ve been fighting and denying and pretending wasn’t happening.

I’m in love with Kovan Krayev.

I’m in love with a man who gets shot and acts like it’s no big deal. A man whose world is so violent that bullets are normal and blood is routine.

I know I’m strong. I’ve proven it over and over again.

But I’m not strong enough for this.

I’m not strong enough to love someone I could lose.

Not again.