51. Chapter 51

51

Wren

I stride through the pristine halls of Ivankov's "clinic," my boots echoing off the polished marble. This place is more five-star hotel than hospital, all gleaming surfaces and designer furniture. It's making my skin crawl.

Two weeks. Two fucking weeks I've been in and out of this gilded cage, watching D drift in and out of consciousness. All because Erik insisted we use their personal medical team. I get it, discretion and all that shit, but still.

I round the corner and there he is. Erik, lounging against the wall like he owns the place, that infuriating smirk plastered on his face.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite patient," he drawls, pushing off the wall.

I roll my eyes. "Fuck off, Erik. I'm not here for your jokes."

He falls into step beside me, unfazed. "Come on, Wren. You've got to admit, the view's not bad."

As if on cue, a nurse walks by, all long legs and perfect curves. I resist the urge to trip her.

"Yeah, real classy," I mutter. "Where's D?"

Erik's grin widens. "Oh, you're gonna love this."

We reach D's room, and I freeze in the doorway. There, leaning over D's bed, is a woman who looks like she stepped off a fucking runway. Long, platinum blonde hair, legs for days, and a white coat that's definitely not standard issue.

"Who the fuck is that?" I hiss.

Erik chuckles. "That, my dear Wren, is Dr. Anastasia Volkov. Top of her class at Moscow State Medical University, and apparently, a miracle worker with gunshot wounds."

Dr. Volkov turns, and I swear her eyes fucking twinkle. "Ah, you must be Wren," she says, her accent thick and rich. "I've heard so much about you."

I bet you have, I think, gritting my teeth.

D stirs on the bed, his eyes fluttering open. "Wren?" he mumbles, voice rough from disuse.

I push past the doctor, ignoring her raised eyebrow. "Hey, big guy. How you feeling?"

He grunts, trying to sit up. Dr. Volkov tsks, pressing him back down with a manicured hand. "Now, now, Mr. Orlov. We can't have you undoing all my hard work."

I watch her hands linger on his chest, my jaw clenching so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.

"I need to change your bandages," she announces, reaching for the hem of D's shirt.

"I can do that," I snap, the words out before I can stop them.

Dr. Volkov's laugh is like tinkling crystal. "Oh, darling. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this requires a... professional touch."

She starts peeling back D's shirt, revealing the patchwork of bandages and bruises underneath. I feel my face heating up, a mix of anger and something else I don't want to name.

Erik leans in, his breath hot on my ear. "Green's not your color, Wren."

I elbow him hard in the ribs, satisfaction blooming as he wheezes. "Shut it, asshole."

Dr. Volkov continues her examination, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. But there's something in the way she touches D, a lingering here, a caress there, that sets my teeth on edge.

"How's the pain, Mr. Orlov?" she asks, her voice pitched low and intimate.

D's eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the cocktail of drugs they've got him on, I can't tell. "S'fine," he slurs.

"Excellent," she purrs. "I think we can start reducing your medication soon. But for now, let's get you comfortable."

She reaches for his waistband, and that's it. I'm done.

"Alright, show's over," I growl, stepping between them. "D needs rest, not a strip tease."

Dr. Volkov straightens, her perfect eyebrows arching. "I assure you, Ms. Davis, this is standard procedure."

"Yeah? Well, your 'procedure' looks a lot like foreplay from where I'm standing."

Erik's choking back laughter behind me, the bastard.

Dr. Volkov's smile is all teeth. "Perhaps you'd prefer to handle Mr. Orlov's care yourself?"

"Maybe I would," I shoot back.

We're locked in a stare-down, the air crackling with tension. D groans from the bed, breaking the spell.

"Ladies, please," Erik interjects, still chuckling. "Let's play nice. Doctor, maybe we could give our friends a moment?"

Dr. Volkov nods, all professional courtesy now. "Of course. I'll be back to check on you in an hour, Mr. Orlov."

She sashays out, Erik trailing behind her like a horny teenager. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with D.

I turn to find him watching me, a hint of amusement in his pain-clouded eyes.

"What?" I snap.

Good to see me? Fucking hell. My stomach does a weird flip that I promptly ignore.

I scrub a hand over my face, suddenly bone-tired. "Yeah, well. Someone's gotta keep these silicone-enhanced vultures off your dick while you're out cold."

His hand finds mine, rough and warm. "My hero," he mumbles, already drifting off again.

What the hell is my problem?

I jerk my hand away from D's, my skin burning where we touched. Fuck. What's wrong with me? I pace the room, fists clenching and unclenching.

My eyes snap back to D. He's out cold, chest barely moving. I freeze, really seeing him for the first time in days. Shit. His face is gaunt, cheekbones sharper than usual. The bandages Dr. Silicone wrapped around his torso look like they're strangling him.

I step closer, fingers ghosting over a fresh scar on his collarbone. My throat closes up. Stupid, reckless bastard.

"Screw it," I mutter, reaching for the bandages. If Botox Barbie can do it, so can I.

I start unwrapping, trying not to wake him. Each new mark I uncover makes my blood boil hotter. Bullet hole. Knife gash. Cigarette burns. Jesus fuck.

D stirs, eyes cracking open. "Wren?" His voice is sandpaper rough.

"No, it's the tooth fairy. Who else would be getting you half-naked, dumbass?" I snark, ignoring the way my heart races.

He grunts, calloused fingers brushing my cheek. "You hurt? That Suka hit you pretty hard..."

My heart does a weird flip-flop thing in my chest. Blood rushes to my face, and I feel like I'm burning up. What the fuck is wrong with me? Calm down, you idiot. It's just D being... D.

I jerk back, his fingers grazing my split lip as I move. "Seriously? You're a human pincushion and you're worried about me?"

Fuck. My voice comes out all breathy and weird.

His eyes, glassy with pain, search my face. "M'sorry," he slurs. "Dragged you into this mess. You and John..."

"Oh, can it," I growl, but there's no bite to it. My fingers trace the edge of a bandage on his ribs. "Like we weren't already neck-deep in shit creek. John and I are trouble magnets, remember?"

D's lips quirk. "John okay?"

"Yeah, the old man's fine. Couple broken ribs. He's high as a kite on whatever Dr. Tits McGee is giving him. Getting discharged tomorrow."

We fall silent.

My fingers still on his chest, feeling each breath.

His eyes lock onto mine, intense.

My throat tightens.

Fuck. What now? There's no reason for me to stick around, is there?

I break eye contact, clearing my throat. "So, about this Skull Collector-"

Before I can finish, D's face contorts. He starts coughing violently, his whole body shaking. Shit. I lunge for the water glass, a sharp pain ripping through my abdomen. I can't hold back a hiss.

D's eyes narrow, zeroing in on my wince. "You seen a doctor yet?"

I scoff, trying to mask the discomfort. "Please. I'm fine. Worry about your own ass, tough guy."

He opens his mouth to argue, but a knock cuts him off. The door swings open and - sweet baby Jesus.

A maid straight out of a Playboy centerfold slinks in. Tits defying gravity, ass you could bounce a quarter off, carrying a tray like she's about to break into a striptease.

"You've got to be shitting me," I groan. "What, is this place run by Hugh Hefner's horny ghost? Did they raid a strip club for staff?"

The maid blinks, all doe-eyed confusion. I wave her off. "Just leave it there, Bambi."

She casts a nervous glance between me and D, set the tray down and scurries out. I turn back to D, rolling my eyes. "I swear, this clinic's more silicon valley than medical facility."

D chuckles, then winces. "Careful. Laughing hurts like a bitch."

"Yeah, well, maybe next time don't play human shield," I snap, but I'm already leaning in, adjusting his pillow. My fingers brush the nape of his neck, and I linger a second too long.

His hand catches mine, rough and warm. Before I can react, he tugs me closer. My breath catches as his lips brush mine, gentle but insistent. For a moment, I forget how to think, how to breathe.

Then reality crashes back in.

What the fuck are we doing?