A Heart Under His Guard (book 2 An angel for mafia king)

Chapter 5

Olga POV

I don’t think about him right away.

That’s the lie I tell myself as I wash my hands longer than necessary, scrubbing until the faint scent of antiseptic replaces the metallic tang of blood. My reflection in the mirror looks composed—glasses straight, hair still pinned up, expression calm.

Professional.

Exactly how it should be.

Still, my heartbeat hasn’t quite returned to normal.

Ivan Volkov.

Alexander didn’t introduce him with a title, but he didn’t have to. Men like that announce themselves without words. He moved like someone who’s learned the exact amount of space his body takes—and how to use it. Controlled. Dangerous. Exhausting to watch.

And injured.

That part bothers me more than it should.

I replay the moment his eyes met mine—flat, assessing, unreadable. No arrogance. No posturing. Just a man measuring risk out of habit.

I don’t fall for men like that.

I won’t.

I grew up watching women disappear into lives like his—consumed by danger, reshaped by fear, loved in ways that left scars. My family might carry blood on its hands, but I chose a different path for a reason.

I chose healing.

The old doctor returns a few minutes later, muttering under his breath. “I leave for one hour and you get the interesting one?”

I arch a brow. “You know him?”

He snorts. “Everyone knows Ivan. If he’s bleeding, it’s a bad day.”

That tracks.

“He doesn’t listen,” I say.

“No,” the doctor agrees. “But he respects competence. That’s rarer.”

I close my file, forcing my thoughts back into neat rows where they belong.

“He’s not my problem,” I say, more to myself than him.

The doctor glances at me. “Good. Keep it that way.”

Later, in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and finally allow myself to breathe.

Russia feels bigger tonight.

Heavier.

I think of the way Ivan stood there, bleeding, and didn’t complain. The way he followed instructions without argument—not because he had to, but because he chose to.

I shake my head.

No.

That’s how it starts—curiosity dressed up as observation.

Angelica warned me once, long ago, that the most dangerous men aren’t the loud ones. They’re the ones who don’t ask to be seen.

I won’t romanticize him.

I won’t imagine softness where there’s discipline. I won’t confuse restraint with kindness.

Whatever Ivan Volkov is, whatever weight he carries—

It’s not mine to carry.

I turn off the light and lie back, staring at the ceiling until my thoughts finally quiet.

Tomorrow, I’ll go back to classes.

Back to the clinic.

Back to my chosen path.

And if I see him again, it will be as a doctor sees a patient.

Nothing more.

I promise myself that.

Even as sleep pulls me under, one unwanted thought slips through—

He didn’t look away when it hurt.

And that, for reasons I refuse to examine,

stays with me longer than it should.