Stolen By The Bratva King (NYC Russian Royals #2)

Chapter 13

13

The next morning…

Emery

I wake up to daylight, which is enough to freak me out. I’m generally at the hospital before sunrise and don’t leave until the stars are out, so it’s weird to see the sun.

Somehow, I slept through my alarm. Maybe it’s because I was out like a light after the orgasm to end all orgasms.

I can’t shake the feeling that I will somehow pay for what happened last night.

How did a girl like me attract the attention of a dangerous, sexy man to the extent that he simply couldn’t leave me alone?

Leon stole a kiss, beat up my fiancé, then followed me home to deliver ramen to my door? Me?

I’m no femme fatale, and I don’t have the effortless beauty that would look right standing at his side. I’m too curvy, with a rounded belly and chunky thighs.

Leon could have a supermodel if he wanted. Someone who weighs less than one of my legs and is desired by all.

I allow myself a bitter smile. Well, I’m sure he’s come to his senses by now. I won’t see that gorgeous man again, not when he knows I’ll be a married woman by the weekend.

At the hospital, it’s the usual chaos. Between checking on patients, handling paperwork, and coordinating with the surgical team, I barely have a moment to breathe.

It’s nothing I’m not used to, but I can’t seem to shake the restless energy from last night.

I duck into the children’s ward to check on my young patient from yesterday. He’s awake but drowsy; according to the nurse, he hasn’t eaten much.

I sit on the edge of his bed. “You okay?” I ask, pointing at his bandages. I pull a face, trying to indicate pain. “Does it hurt?”

The little boy doesn’t speak much English, but his big blue eyes are devastating, full of fear and loneliness. He shakes his head, then frowns.

“My Mami?” he says, his tiny voice trembling. “Is here?”

I blink hard to clear my vision. I can’t get involved; the social worker will ensure he’s looked after, but who knows what’ll become of him?

I shake my head and give his shoulder a squeeze. “I don’t know about your mother,” I say. “Try to rest.” I point at the pillow. “Rest. Zzzz.”

The boy lies down, obediently closing his eyes. I tell myself I won’t look back, but I can’t help it, and he gives me a small wave. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like a plea.

I’m at a computer in the nurse’s station, pretending to look up a patient’s records, when one of the nurses shrieks in excitement.

“Wow! Emery, this guy says these are for you!”

I glance down the corridor to see Kacie, a trainee, bounding my way. Behind her is what appears to be a floral arrangement on legs.

It’s the most enormous bouquet I’ve ever seen and obscenely extravagant—delicate blooms and fresh greenery spilling out in a cascade of white and soft pink. It’s so beautiful that it almost doesn’t feel real.

The delivery guy’s voice emerges from somewhere in the center of the blooms.

“Dr. Bright? Please take this, ma’am. It’s been the bane of my life. At this point, I’d pay you to take the damn thing off my hands.”

I reach out to take the bouquet, then hesitate. It’s too extravagant to be from a grateful patient; this is the kind of gesture made by kings and billionaires, intended for princesses with sprawling mansions in which to store lavish gifts.

I have no idea how I’ll get it home, and even if I do, will it fit in the elevator, let alone my tiny apartment?

It takes Kacie and me to wrangle it into an empty exam room, and even then, we’re giggling with the effort. Jess, the nurse who helped me yesterday, rounds the corner and stops, clutching her chest dramatically.

“Holy Hell, Emery! You’re so lucky!”

A few others gather around, all of them cooing. “Your fiancé, I presume?” someone says with a grin. “You’d better hope so!”

My heart skips a beat. Dante used to send flowers when he wanted to reel me back in, but nothing on this scale, and not for a long time. Nowadays, he wouldn’t bother.

I make all the right noises, smiling and laughing as my coworkers fawn over the flowers, but apprehension twists inside me. I move my fingers through the petals and find a generic “for you” printed on a square of white card.

Dante’s peace offerings always included a whining missive about how I needed to examine my behavior, blah, blah, blah. This silence feels purposely anonymous.

I can’t help but wonder—could it really be from Leon?

It’s a ridiculous thought, but the notion digs in, stubborn and impossible to shake. He saw past my defenses; maybe he read my mind somehow.

If I don’t know who sent the gift, I can allow myself the possibility, right?

Jess’s head appears around the door. “We’ll need this room soon, Em. What shall we do with the flowers?”

I give a rueful smile. “Ask a couple of the orderlies if they’d mind breaking it down into smaller bunches and taking them around the wards? Some patients don’t get visitors, so they might put smiles on a few faces.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Jess beams. “Alright, Miss Florence Nightingale, but don’t forget to keep some for yourself.”

She’s right. It’s my gift, whoever it’s from. But somehow, sharing it feels better than hoarding it all to myself.

My wedding planner, Krissy, left me a message earlier, probably about yet another purchase my fiancé had vetoed.

Throughout the planning process, Krissy was an angel, handling Dante’s demands gracefully while trying to accommodate my vision wherever possible.

When I call back, she answers almost immediately.

“Emery! I have some news.”

“Let me guess—Dante slashed another item from the list?”

“Oh no!” She laughs. “Not at all! In fact, your fiancé put his platinum Amex on account this morning. No limit, no second-guessing. He told me you can have anything you want.”

I pause, stunned. “He did what?”

“I know! Called me himself after weeks of nothing but emails. Said there are no restrictions. If you’ve been eyeing any upgrades or changes, go for it. Honestly, I was kind of impressed. Not every groom is so generous!”

Generous isn’t a word I associate with Dante. He’s spent most of our engagement micromanaging every detail and choosing mid-list options, but never anything special.

So why the sudden change?

“Wow, okay,” I say. “In that case, I’d like to go ahead with the Mikado silk gown I showed you a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, that one was gorgeous!” she says. “I’ll confirm with the designer right away. Anything else?”

I hesitate, the weight of possibility making me dizzy. “I wanted different flowers for the church. Pink roses, eucalyptus, purple thistles…” I trail off, feeling overwhelmed.

“Absolutely, I’ll price up a few package options and send them over by tonight,” Krissy says, delighted. “We’ll make this everything you’ve ever wanted, Emery.”

No amount of money could make this wedding what I want, but I’m not about to tell her that.