Page 106 of Twisted Pact

“We need to get her horizontal,” Orlov snaps. “Now.”

They half-carry me back to the vehicle, and as they do, I catch a glimpse of Papa being loaded into one of the other cars. His face is swollen and bloody, but he’s conscious. He’s alive.

The cost of that life lies scattered around the warehouse in the form of body bags and wounded men.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as Alexei settles me onto the back seat. “For making you do this. For putting everyone at risk.”

“I chose this. Every part of it. Don’t you dare apologize for loving your father enough to want him safe.”

Dr. Orlov pushes between us with the blood pressure cuff. “She needs rest and relaxation. No more stress. No more dangerous situations. Her blood pressure can’t handle the excitement.”

“Done,” Alexei agrees.

“I’m sitting right here,” I point out. “Stop talking about me like I’m not present.”

“Then stop scaring the hell out of us by running toward active combat zones.”

“You were hurt.”

“I’ve been hurt before. I’ll be hurt again. That doesn’t mean risk your life and our baby’s life trying to rescue me.”

The convoy starts moving. Through the window, I watch the warehouse recede behind us. Papa is alive. Alexei is injured but functional. The operation succeeded despite the casualties.

And I witnessed every brutal second of what this world requires.

28

Alexei

Dr. Orlov ties off the last stitch in my shoulder and steps back to examine his work.

“You were lucky,” he comments while reaching for gauze and medical tape. “Another inch to the right, and it would have hit a major artery. You’d have bled out before we got you here.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. I saw the shooter and moved.”

I’m sitting shirtless on a kitchen chair in the safehouse while Mila watches from the doorway. She hasn’t said a word since we arrived twenty minutes ago. She’s just standing there with her arms crossed, staring at the blood-soaked gauze Orlov discarded on the table.

Her father is in one of the bedrooms upstairs, sedated and being monitored by one of Orlov’s assistants. Alive, but barely. The beating he took would have killed a weaker man.

“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Orlov instructs as he tapes down the bandage. “Change the dressing twice daily. Watch forsigns of infection—redness, swelling, fever. Call me immediately if you notice anything unusual.”

“Got it.”

He packs up his medical bag and glances at Mila. “How are you feeling? Any cramping? Spotting?”

“I’m fine,” she says quietly.

“Your blood pressure was elevated when I checked you at the warehouse. Understandable given the circumstances, but we need to monitor it closely over the next few days.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Orlov looks like he wants to argue, but something in her tone stops him. He just nods and packs his stethoscope. “I’ll be back in the morning to check on you and your father.”

He gives Mila one more cursory check before heading out the door. “Your pulse and pressure are stable again,” he says, softer this time. “No signs of distress. Rest and hydration tonight, and you’ll be fine.”

Then he glances at me. “Keep her calm, Alexei.”

After he leaves, Mila and I are alone in the suffocating quiet.