Chapter 4
734 Words
Ivan POV
The wound is stupid.
That’s what irritates me the most.
Not heroic. Not earned in a firefight. Just bad timing and a ricochet when a situation was already under control. The kind of injury that happens when you relax half a second too early.
My ribs sting with every breath, sharp enough to be annoying, not enough to slow me down.
Which is why I don’t mention it.
Of course, Alexander notices anyway.
“You’re bleeding,” he says flatly as we step into the mansion.
“I’ll live.”
“That’s not the point,” he replies, already turning. “Doctor. Now.”
I sigh internally but don’t argue. When Alexander insists, it’s not worth the energy to push back. I peel off my jacket as I walk, blood seeping through my shirt, warm against cold skin.
Each step sends a reminder through my side.
Good. Keeps me alert.
The clinic is quiet when I enter. Too quiet. The lights are on, but the familiar sound of the old doctor muttering to himself is absent.
I stop in the doorway.
Someone else is inside.
A woman.
Curvy figure, back turned to me, white coat hugging her shape without trying to. Honey-colored hair pulled up into a messy bun, loose strands brushing her neck. She’s focused on something on the desk, unaware she’s no longer alone.
Then she turns.
She lifts her head slowly, adjusting her glasses as her eyes meet mine.
And she doesn’t flinch.
Not at the blood.
Not at my size.
Not at the gun still visible at my side.
She just looks at me—calm, assessing, sharp.
“Sit,” she says.
Not a question.
I raise an eyebrow.
“I didn’t ask,” she adds coolly. “And you’re bleeding on the floor.”
That’s new.
Before I can respond, Alexander steps in behind me.
“Olga,” he says evenly. “This is Ivan. He’s hurt.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to Alexander, then back to me. “Obviously.”
She gestures toward the examination table. “Shirt off. Slowly. If you pass out, I’ll be annoyed.”
I almost smile.
Almost.
I move as instructed, every motion pulling at my ribs. She notices immediately.
“Left side,” she says. “Lower ribs.”
“Yes.”
“Gunshot?”
“Ricochet.”
She hums softly, already pulling on gloves. Professional. Focused. No hesitation.
Alexander watches from the doorway, arms crossed.
“She’s assisting the doctor now,” he says, like he’s explaining a chess move. “Medical student. Angelica’s friend.”
So this is her.
Olga.
She steps closer, inspecting the wound with practiced hands, fingers firm but careful. She doesn’t apologize when it hurts. Doesn’t soften her touch.
Good.
“Who stitched you last time?” she asks.
“No one.”
Her eyes flick up sharply. “Figures.”
She cleans the area, methodical, efficient. Her hands are warm. Steady.
“You break ribs often?” she asks.
“Only when necessary.”
“That often, then,” she replies dryly.
Alexander’s mouth twitches.
She finishes cleaning and looks at me fully now, really looking.
“You don’t rest,” she states.
I don’t respond.
“You don’t listen to pain,” she continues. “And you don’t ask for help.”
Still nothing.
She straightens, meets my eyes through her glasses, completely unbothered by the man in front of her.
“That will change,” she says calmly. “Or you’ll end up on my table for reasons neither of us will enjoy.”
I hold her gaze.
Something passes between us—not attraction, not yet.
Recognition.
She doesn’t see a weapon.
She sees a patient.
And for reasons I don’t understand, that unsettles me more than fear ever could.
She finishes bandaging my ribs, hands precise, movements confident.
“There,” she says. “Try not to get shot again today.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
As I stand, Alexander places a hand briefly on my shoulder.
“You’re in good hands,” he says.
I’m not sure that’s true.
Because as Olga steps back, removing her gloves, I realize something dangerous—
For the first time in a very long time,
Someone just looked at me
and didn’t see what I could do—
Only what I needed.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
- Writer
