Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
JONAH
Sokolov guides me down the corridor. His grip is locked around my arm. Our footsteps echo off the walls. Each turn takes us farther from the room I just left behind.
What if I can’t keep the man alive? No. I can’t think like that. I am a good nurse. I have to be. But my steps hitch before I catch myself.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.” Pressure clamps on my shoulder as he steers me down the hall.
“Please.” The word slips out before I can stop it. My heart drums in my ribcage, urging me to get the hell out of here.
Another guard steps in at my other side, closing the space. I’m boxed in. Pushed forward. Sokolov’s grip tightens. “You have no idea where you are.”
Faint now, through layers of wall, I still hear Dad shouting my name. Sokolov’s fingers dig into the thin fabric of my scrubs.
“Don’t,” he says. “He’s not getting you out.”
We move deeper into the estate. Only an hour ago, I was leaving work and thinking about reheating old noodles.
Now I’m walking through a mansion full of guards.
Sokolov leans closer. His breath brushes my ear.
“You walked into a world that doesn’t let people go. No one comes looking for men like you.”
The words land with the weight of absolute truth.
Sokolov is right. I hate that he is. I’ve lived my life like a ghost, drifting from shifts to my trailer.
The truth hits me like a physical weight.
If I vanish tonight, the hospital will post my job listing before they post a missing person’s report.
I’m a nobody. And in this world, nobodies are the easiest to bury.
My chest tightens at the thought, but I keep walking. There’s nowhere else to go anyway. We climb stairs, then turn into a narrower corridor, letting the noise of the main house fade behind us. I straighten my shoulders. Fear sits low in my stomach. “I’m not disappearing. I won’t.”
No one answers. There’s just the dull sound of their boots on the floor.
We pass a set of glass cases placed neatly between the doors. Knives rest inside them in careful rows. Some long, some curved, all looking to be made for one specific, lethal hand. Sokolov presses the back of my neck. “Keep moving.”
Footsteps join us as a woman falls in beside him. Sokolov steps aside and gestures once toward the opening, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Welcome to the prince’s wing.”
The air changes the second we cross the threshold. Thick carpet swallows the sound of our boots, killing the echo. It’s too quiet, except for the wild pounding of my heart. How the hell will I ever find my way back out of this place? I’m already lost.
A man waits by the door in a dark suit. His sleeves are pushed back just enough to show his forearms.
“This is Jonah, your replacement.” Sokolov’s grip tightens on my shoulder. “Jonah, this is Doctor Petrov.”
Petrov’s gaze drags down my frame, pausing on my damp scrubs and sneakers with visible distaste. “My replacement.”
“Babushka’s idea.”
“I see.” His Russian accent is unmistakable. He sizes me up. My skin prickles like he’s already deciding where I’d break. “Jonah, the nurse. Yes?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Yes.”
“Very well. If Babushka has decided, then we proceed. You will follow my schedule.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, even though I don’t understand what that means yet.
“He’s been unconscious for a week. We don’t know if he’ll make it.” There’s a faint shift at the corner of his mouth, gone almost as soon as I notice it.
“That’s awful.” My stomach drops. If he dies, I die too. That part has been made all too clear.
“That’s why you’ll stay with him. Day and night. Until I say otherwise.” He presses a medical bag into my chest, forcing me to take the weight of it. “Good luck. You’ll need it when he wakes.”
My fingers tighten around the strap. “Why?”
Petrov opens the door and nudges me toward the threshold. “Fear, Jonah. He doesn’t tolerate it.” His gaze flicks over me. “And you reek of it.”
“Don’t scare the poor boy,” Sokolov barks from behind me. His hand presses briefly between my shoulder blades as he guides me to the threshold. “The only thing that matters in your life now is taking care of Viktor Morozov.”
The name hits like a blow to the chest.
Viktor Morozov.
Headlines crash through my mind—a black car, a body dragged from a club. He was supposed to be dead. My heart slams against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that says I’ve walked into a grave that hasn't been covered yet.
I swallow hard. “He was shot. They said...”
“That he was dead?” Sokolov’s mouth curls. “People say many things.”
My pulse roars in my ears. The Morozovs rule this city, and Viktor Morozov was not supposed to be alive. Of all the places I thought I could be, this wasn’t one of them.
“Food will be brought three times a day,” Sokolov continues. “Petrov will come in daily. You will do as he tells you.”
The door closes behind me. I stand there, heart pounding, and understand I’m alone now. And afraid.
The room is larger than anything I’ve ever lived in.
One wall is all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the grounds.
Moonlight spills through the glass and spreads across the floor.
I stand there, unsure where to put myself.
A king-size bed sits in the center. A single lamp glows on the table beside it.
Then I see him.
He lies beneath charcoal linens, bandages wrapped around his torso. Even unconscious, he fills the room. Viktor Morozov. The man everyone said was dead.
A faint twitch moves across his fingers.
A rough sound leaves his throat. My body reacts before my mind does.
A flush spreads from my chest to my neck, my skin betraying me with a throb of heat.
I’ve seen men torn open by bullets before, but this is different.
Looking at him makes my chest tight. It makes my blood turn thick and heavy.
I spin around, staring at the polished wood of the door. I grab the handle and pull. The lock holds. I try it again, but it doesn't budge. I'm not just here to work. I'm a prisoner locked in a cage with a ghost.
I force myself to turn away from the door, my heart still knocking against my ribs. I set the medical bag on the nightstand, my hands clumsy as I fumble with the latch.
Don’t look at him like that.
But when I glance back, I do anyway. From this angle, Viktor looks younger than I expected.
The headlines had painted a monster, but the man lying there has a sharp jawline and skin that looks like bronze against the white fabric.
He looks younger than the headlines, but just as dangerous.
I touch his skin to check for a fever. He’s solid.
Built for violence. The heat coming off him makes my own blood feel heavy. This is the man they warned me about.
Still, my gaze lingers. I catch it and drag it away, heat crawling up my neck. I’ve treated men torn open by knives, by bullets, by cars. I’ve cleaned blood from places I don't even like to name. None of it ever did this to me. None of it ever made my chest feel tight for no clear reason.
Get to work.
I step closer because I have to. Because there’s a bandage to check.
Because someone’s life is balanced on what I do next.
My fingers lift, then stall above the covers.
It shouldn’t matter what they’re made of, but the fabric looks too expensive.
Everything in this room feels like it belongs to someone else’s world.
Stop hesitating.
I lower my hand and press lightly. I’m feeling for swelling, for anything wrong beneath the surface.
But the warmth under my palm is a hum that sinks into my bones.
My fingers move bit by bit, mapping what I need to know.
I tell myself the quick jump of my pulse means nothing.
But then my hand brushes skin instead of fabric, and my thoughts scatter.
I’ve spent years training my brain to see bodies as machines, but this young man's heat is a localized fever that my own blood is rising to meet. I’m touching a thigh the size of my torso and my groin is gathering heat.
I’m getting hard. It’s dysfunctional and wrong.
I’ve spent my life looking at bodies like machines to fix, but this is a man, and the way I’m reacting to him makes me want to hack my own hand off.
I still my fingers at once. Breathe. Think.
This is not why you’re here.
I adjust my grip, but now I’m too aware of the space between my hand and his body. Too aware of the way my own breath has changed. How can a stranger feel this intrusive? I finish the check fast after that. Too fast. And when I step back, my hands feel strange. Like they don't belong to me anymore.
Viktor’s skin is warm beneath my palm, solid in a way that surprises me.
Built to take hits and keep standing. I catch myself wondering how heavy he is, how much space he takes up when he’s not lying still like this.
The thought makes my stomach flip, a mix of nausea and a hunger I don't recognize. I don’t want him to look at me.
Stop.
My touch drifts lower without me meaning it to. When I brush something unmistakably human beneath the covers, I don't jump. I just freeze. I forget to breathe. I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’ve spent years training my brain to treat bodies like machines. Parts to fix. This isn't a machine. This is a man, and the heat coming off him is making my head spin.
Does he know I’m touching him?
My scrubs itch. My chest feels too tight. I tell myself to look away, but instead I notice the way his scent fills the space between us.
Get back to work.
I force my hands to move. I peel back the gauze. The wound is a jagged mouth against his ribs. I clean the edges, slow and careful, focusing on the scrape of the swab against skin.
Don’t think about anything else. Don’t think about the heat under your fingers. Don’t think about how your own pulse is racing to keep up with his.
Dropping into the armchair, I slump back against the wood paneling of the wall. My legs are heavy. The adrenaline is starting to crash, leaving a localized fever in my blood. I yawn into my hand, but I don't stop watching him.
A sound pulls me out of sleep. My eyes flutter open. Then I hear it again.
A deeper breath. Viktor’s position has changed. His hand tightens in the blanket. A muscle jumps in his jaw. Then his eyes open—not glassy with fever, but sharp. They cut through the haze of the drugs to find the only threat in the room. I forget how to breathe.
I flick a look at the door. Locked. Viktor coughs, the sound tearing out of him, rough and wet. I should go to him. I know I should. But fear, and something worse, pins me where I sit.
Then his gaze finds me. They aren't the eyes of a patient. They're the eyes of a predator. He’s assessing me, weighing my worth, and I’m frozen under the stare. “Where am I?”
Training kicks in before courage does. I’m moving before I think about it. “At home.”
His eyes sweep the room once, assessing. Then they return to me. “This is not home. Who are you?”
My pulse kicks. “I’m Jonah. I’m... your nurse. Do you need anything?”
Viktor’s eyes narrow. They’re green, edged with gold. The corner of his mouth tightens, like he can hear my heartbeat. Then his eyes slide shut again.
I don't realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest burns. I sink back into the chair, then down to the floor, my pulse racing. My palms still feel warm.
This isn’t good. I scrub my face.
I just want to go home. Because sooner or later, Viktor will wake up. And he’ll realize we’re locked in together.
What do I do then? When he’s strong enough to stand? When he realizes I’m the only thing in this room he can break?