12. Viviana

I've never been so happy to see a hospital gown.

The ride to the hospital couldn't have been more than half an hour, but the power nap revived me. I woke up in the hospital parking lot with a head full of questions, half of which revolved around getting this godforsaken dress off of my body as soon as possible.

The nurse holds the thin, pale blue bundle of fabric out to me. I snatch it out of her hands with a perfunctory "thank you" and practically escort her out of the door. Then I unzip the wedding dress and happily let it puddle around my feet.

And as the fabric hits the floor, I remember I'm not alone in the room.

Mikhail is sitting on the window ledge, his arms crossed. But his attention is laser-focused on every inch of my exposed skin. There's a lot of it, since I couldn't wear my bra with the strapless wedding dress.

"Sorry," I mutter, turning away from him.

Goosebumps that have nothing to do with the balmy temperature of the room spread down my arms. I pull the hospital gown on and reach around to find the strings to tie it closed.

"I'm going to kill him," Mikhail snarls under his breath.

I don't know what he means until his thumb strokes just above the raw skin around my wrists.

I wince and he drops my arm, but I can feel the warmth of him along my spine. I want to sink against his chest, which is exactly why I force myself to perch on the end of the exam table instead.

"I took your chains off in the car, but it was dark." He forces out a deep breath. "Viviana, I?—"

There's a soft knock at the door and then the doctor comes into the room. I'm wary of seeing any strangers right now. I just want to get this exam over with as soon as possible and get this doctor out of my life.

But it's impossible to give Dr. Hamilton the cold shoulder. He is the kindest, warmest man I've ever met. He's like the medical field's version of Bob Ross.

"I don't see a darn thing wrong with you, darling," he says after a thorough ten-minute examination overseen by Mikhail. He pats my knee and reminds me of the father I wish I had. When he looks at my wrist, he clicks his tongue. "Not a darn thing except that wrist. The abrasions are angry now, but I'm going to bandage them up and they'll be much happier."

"Just the cuts?" Mikhail paces back and forth across the narrow room, fingers tugging at his hair. "That's the only problem?"

"It's all I'm seeing." Dr. Hamilton gives sufficient eye contact to Mikhail, putting him at ease. Then he looks back to me. "Beyond that, you're perfect, Viviana."

"I think you missed your calling. You should be a motivational speaker," I tease. "I haven't felt perfect in a long time."

Mikhail crosses his arms and paces away from the hospital bed. I don"t want to think about what"s going on in his head. A running list of recent examples why I'm not perfect at all, I"m sure.

Dr. Hamilton laughs, but his smile is sympathetic. "I'll remember that if I ever consider retirement. I've never been good at relaxation, but I'm in my twilight years now. Motivational speaking might have better office hours."

"Thank you for coming in. I know it's last-minute."

Especially considering I thought I'd be in chains and married to a psychopath by now.

"My pleasure. Now—" He scribbles something on my chart and tucks it under his arm. "—I'm going to get you set up with an IV. I'd like to see you finish a bag of fluids before you leave."

Mikhail whips around. "You said she was perfect."

"She is. And with some help towards rehydration, she'll stay that way." Dr. Hamilton winks at me. "It was lovely to meet you, Viviana. Once that bag is gone, you're free to go."

The doctor slips away before Mikhail can interrogate him further. A few minutes later, a nurse comes in and inserts my IV.

As she drapes the tubing over the corner of the bed and leaves, I try to name the panic sitting on my chest. It's not claustrophobia, but it leaves me with the same dry mouth, tight lung feeling.

I'm okay. I'm safe.

But Mikhail is pacing back and forth in the corner of the room and I still don't know what he's doing here. Once the bag of fluids next to me is gone, I have no idea what's going to happen to me.

Will I have a home? Will I get to see Dante? Will Trofim hunt me down and put me through this hell again?

I try to keep my breathing shallow and steady, but Mikhail is like a bloodhound, if bloodhounds were trained to know when I'm freaking the fuck out.

"What's wrong?" He looks around the room like he's double checking we're alone. "Why are you upset?"

I shake my head. "It's fine."

"You're lying."

"And you don't know everything," I bite back.

I don't mean to come across as harsh, but days without sleep combined with the existential dread swirling in my head are bound to make a girl grouchy.

"I'm sorry, it's just…" I sigh and pinch the IV tubing between my fingers. "I just spent the last few days chained to a bed. This is different, but it doesn't feel different."

He tugs a hand through his hair again. It's immaculately disheveled. "You were supposed to get out of the city. I didn't think—if I knew?—"

"You didn't know." Why I feel the need to let Mikhail off the hook, I'll never know. But I do. I don't want him to beat himself up over what his brother did.

He drops down on the end of my bed, his weight tugging my legs towards him. "But did you? Did you know Trofim was alive and looking for you?"

"If I had, you never could have gotten rid of me. I would have tied myself to the gates like the environmentalists who chain themselves to trees."

Mikhail doesn't smile. I don't really expect him to.

None of this is funny.

"Tell me what happened. All of it."

I nod. "Well, you know that my dad wanted me to kill Trofim. If he was dead, then it would clear the way for you to become pakhan and it would give Dante a direct line to leadership. All of that would have benefitted my father. But for me…" I breathe through the tightness in my chest. "Everything I did was about my freedom and Dante's safety. That's why I did what I did."

"What exactly did you do? I'm sure you've noticed, but Trofim is alive. You didn't kill him."

"Unfortunately," I grumble. "But that's what I went there that night to do. I got there and everything went exactly like I planned. I knew Trofim would buy that I was there to apologize to him and make things right, and he did. He walked me straight back to his bedroom and kissed me."

Mikhail's hand tightens into a fist. I look away. If I reach out to touch him now, I'll never get through the rest of this story.

"He threw me down on the bed and I knew if I didn't do it right then, I wouldn't get the chance. If he found the knife strapped to my thigh, things would have ended a lot differently. So, as he climbed over me, I drove the blade into his stomach." A shiver moves down my spine. "I still have nightmares about his blood coating my hands. It felt like hot oil and the knife slipped out of my hand. I knew as soon as the blade went in that I couldn't kill him. Taking another person's life, even someone as evil as Trofim, wasn't something I could live with."

"So you knew he wasn't dead?" Mikhail asks, brow furrowed. "When I accused you of killing him, you knew?—"

"I knew he wasn't dead when I left," I explain. "Trofim was yelling and stumbling around the room. I got up and ran before he could figure out what was happening. But I had no clue what happened afterward. I figured it just… ended."

Mikhail frowns. "You didn't finish the job. You could have told me that. I accused you and you didn't say anything."

"I wanted to. I tried. But I also didn't think it made much of a difference. As far as I knew, Trofim was dead. It had been six years since that night in Moscow and I hadn't heard a word about Trofim. Not one peep. Until you told me he was dead. So I thought… I thought I killed him. I thought that maybe one stab was all it took."

Mikhail is quiet for a long time. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. If he believes me, if he's still mad at me for lying.

And the longer we sit in the quiet, the more I don't even know what I'm thinking.

Do I care if he believes me? He may or may not be mad, I don't know, but… am I?

He dumped me on the curb like an old mattress so he could marry some other woman. He did it to keep Dante safe, sure. I get that. I can understand the impulse—I've spent the last six years of my life doing everything imaginable to protect Dante, including flying around the globe to stab Mikhail's brother in the stomach. Desperate times, desperate measures, and all that.

But there's a big difference between understanding Mikhail's motivations and being just peachy about the way I was treated. Deep down, I have to wonder, Aren't I worth protecting, too?

Mikhail tugs another hand through his hair and I can see he isn't wearing a wedding ring—mine or anyone else's.

"Why did you come for me?" I can't bring myself to ask him about Helen directly. I'm pathetic enough, naked except for a hospital gown with smudged wedding makeup on. No need to look like a possessive psycho on top of all that. So I inch as close to the question as I can without tumbling over the edge.

"I already told you: you weren't supposed to be there with Trofim."

"Okay, but why did that matter?" I press. "You sent me away. It's not like I was your responsibility anymore. It wouldn't have made any difference to you whether your brother was torturing me or not. You could have left me."

"No," he retorts. "I couldn't have."

My hands slide across the thin hospital comforter, closer to him. I'm not sure if I want to grab his shoulders and shake answers out of him or throw my arms around his neck and hold him until I fall asleep. I could probably sleep for days—longer, if Mikhail was next to me.

"Is it about jealousy?" I feel stupid even suggesting it. He kicked me out of his life just a few days ago. Where do I get off thinking he's jealous? But it's all that makes sense. "If it was, you should know I did not want to be there." I lift my bandaged wrists as proof. "Did you think it would look bad for the Bratva? I guess me marrying you and then turning around and marrying your brother, who everyone thought was dead, could be a bad look."

He snorts, mumbling under his breath. "It's a worse look for the Bratva that I'm here right now."

"Then you should go." It might be easier that way. For both of us. He saved me and now, he can go back to the mansion and Dante… Pain twists deep in my chest, but it'll be worse the longer Mikhail stays.

His jaw flexes. "I can't."

"You can do whatever you want." Finally, I find the courage to close the gap between us, my fingers brushing down his bicep. "So why are you here?"

"Because letting you leave that night was a mistake." Mikhail jerks to his feet, his hands opening and closing at his sides like he isn't sure what to do with them. I'm not sure what I want him to do with them, either.

"We didn't even know Trofim was alive. How could you have known he'd come for me?"

"Fuck Trofim," he grits out. "This isn't about him. It's about—" He spins towards me, his eyes electric blue and wild. "You're all I've been able to think about for days. I've been a fucking wreck. Even before I heard about Trofim, I couldn't sleep. There was this constant ache in my chest like I'd lost something. And when I found out that Trofim was alive and he—" Mikhail can't even finish the sentence. He's about to combust. "I had to come get you. I couldn't leave you there, Viviana."

I wish he'd stop saying my name like that. Like he cares. Like nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

If he'd said any of this a couple weeks ago, I would have melted into a puddle at his feet. I would have thrown myself at him and begged him to say it all again. To whisper it against my skin as he carried me to his bed.

Now, it feels like he's poking at a still-open wound. It hurts.

"What does your new wife think about all of this?"

He checks the clock on the wall. "As of three hours ago, she became my new ex-fiancée."

Silence. Stunned, gasping silence.

"What?" I breathe at last.

"I skipped our wedding to rescue you." He smirks and the curve of his lip does dangerous things to my insides. "I doubt Helen will handle that insult with grace."

"But… war," I blurt. Speaking of not having grace.

"Wars have been fought for many reasons." Mikhail's eyes drift slowly over to me. "And as far as I'm concerned, there's never been a better one."

He's saying all of the right things. I want to lean into the comfort he's offering right now, but I can't. Not if that comfort won't still be there next week, next month. I can't lean on Mikhail now if he's not going to be there for the rest of my life.

Because that's what I want from him, isn't it? Forever?

With one child and another on the way, I need to know he's going to be there.

The words coming out of his mouth should mean that I'm safe. So why do I feel like I'm in more danger than ever?