Chapter Seventeen - Serena
The hallway outside the medical room is too quiet.
I can hear everything—the ticking clock on the wall, the distant murmur of voices from somewhere in the mansion, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
My hands twist together in my lap, the movement making my broken finger throb, but I can’t seem to stop.
The blood on my palms has dried dark and sticky. Pavel’s blood, mixed with mine from my own injuries. I should wash it off. Should let someone treat the cuts on my shoulder and arm, should get ice for the swelling in my hand.
Instead I just sit here, replaying the moment over and over with vivid, sickening clarity.
The sound of the gunshot. Pavel’s body jerking from the impact. The way he stayed standing despite the bullet tearing through his shoulder, turning to look at me with those steel-gray eyes.
“Mrs. Rudenko?”
I look up to find Maria standing there with a first aid kit and a glass of water I don’t remember asking for. Her expression is gentle, concerned in a way that makes my eyes prick with unexpected tears.
“You should let me clean those wounds,” she says quietly, gesturing to my shoulder. “Dr. Belov is still working on Mr. Rudenko, but your injuries need attention too.”
“I’m fine.” The automatic response comes out rougher than intended. “How long has he been in there?”
“Nearly an hour.” Maria sets down the supplies anyway, clearly not deterred by my refusal. “Dr. Belov said the surgery is going well. The bullet went clean through, no major vessels damaged.”
Surgery. The word makes my stomach drop despite the reassurance that follows.
Pavel is in surgery because he put himself between me and a bullet. In that split second when Kravin’s gun swung toward me, Pavel didn’t hesitate—didn’t calculate risks or strategic value. He just moved.
He almost died for it.
“Why would he do that?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Risk everything for me?”
Maria’s expression softens further. “Because you’re his wife.”
“This isn’t a real marriage. It’s a business arrangement.” The words tumble out, desperate and unconvincing even to my own ears.
“Is that what you believe?” Maria asks gently. “After everything?”
Before I can answer, the door to the medical room opens. Dr. Belov emerges, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His surgical gown is stained with blood—Pavel’s blood—and exhaustion lines his face.
I’m on my feet immediately. “Is he okay?”
“He’s stable,” Belov says, and relief hits so hard my knees almost buckle. “The bullet passed through the shoulder muscle without hitting bone or major arteries. He lost significant blood, but nothing we couldn’t manage. He’ll need rest and physical therapy, but full recovery is expected.”
The tears I’ve been holding back since the warehouse finally spill over. I press my uninjured hand to my mouth, trying to contain the sob that wants to escape.
“Can I see him?” The question comes out broken, desperate.
Belov nods. “He’s unconscious from the anesthesia, but you can sit with him. Just keep it quiet; he needs rest.”
I’m moving before he finishes speaking, pushing past him into the room.
Pavel lies on the hospital bed, painfully still against white sheets. His left shoulder is heavily bandaged, and an IV runs from his right arm. His face is pale—too pale—dark hair stark against the pillow.
His chest rises and falls with steady rhythm. Breathing. Alive.
I sink into the chair beside the bed, my legs finally giving out. Up close, I can see details I missed before—the dark circles under his eyes, the tension that remains even in unconsciousness, the faint scar along his jaw that I’ve noticed before but never really examined.
He looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen. Pavel Rudenko, the controlled Bratva boss who commands absolute authority, reduced to this pale and unconscious man in ways that make my chest ache.
My hand moves almost without conscious decision, reaching toward his face. I catch myself just before touching, fingers hovering over his forehead where a strand of dark hair has fallen across his brow.
I want to brush it back. Want to smooth away the tension still visible in his features. Want to—
His eyes snap open.
I jerk back immediately, embarrassed to be caught hovering over him like some lovesick fool. “I was just… uh, there was hair in your face.”
The excuse sounds pathetic even to me.
Pavel’s gaze focuses slowly, pain medication making his usual sharp awareness slightly hazy. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “You’re hurt.”
Of course that’s his first concern. Not his own injury, not the fact that he just had surgery, but the cuts and bruises I sustained in the warehouse.
“I’m fine,” I say, the same automatic response I gave Maria. “You’re the one who got shot.”
“Minor wound.” He tries to sit up, winces, and falls back against the pillows. “How long was I unconscious?”
“About an hour. Dr. Belov said the surgery went well.” I lean forward despite myself, one hand moving to his uninjured shoulder to keep him from trying to rise again. “You need to rest. Don’t try to move.”
“I’m fine.” Even as he says it, I can see the pain tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches against it.
“You’re not fine. You got shot.” My voice breaks slightly on the last word. “You stepped in front of a bullet meant for me and you almost died and you’re not fine.”
He studies my face with that intense focus I’ve come to recognize, even dulled by medication. “You’re crying.”
“I’m not—”
I am. Tears are streaming down my face despite my attempts to control them.
“This is your fault.”
“What do you mean?”
“You put yourself between me and that gun!” The words come out louder than intended, frustration and fear and relief all tangling together. “You could have been killed, Pavel. The bullet could have hit something vital, you could have bled out before we got you help.”
Something shifts in his expression. “You were scared? for me?”
“Of course I was scared!” The admission bursts out before I can stop it. “I watched you get shot protecting me. I felt your blood soaking through my hands while we drove here. I’ve been sitting in that hallway for an hour not knowing if you’d be all right.”
I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
Pavel’s grip on my hand tightens slightly. “Serena.”
“Just don’t do it again,” I interrupt, my voice dropping to something quieter, more vulnerable. “Don’t make me watch you almost die. I don’t think I could handle that.”
The confession hangs between us, weighted with implications I’m not ready to examine.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Then Pavel’s thumb brushes across my knuckles with unexpected gentleness.
“I can’t promise that,” he says quietly. “If the situation arose again, I’d make the same choice.”
He stops, seeming to struggle with words in a way I’ve never witnessed before.
“You’re important,” he finishes finally. “More important than you realize.”
The statement makes my breath catch.
“Your finger.” He changes the subject, his gaze fixing on the blood-soaked fabric of my torn sweater. “Dr. Belov needs to treat that properly.”
“It can wait.” I don’t move my hand from where he’s holding it. “You’re more important right now.”
“I’m fine,” he insists again, but his eyes are starting to drift closed despite obvious efforts to stay focused. “Just need a few minutes…”
“Rest,” I tell him, my free hand moving almost instinctively to smooth back that errant strand of hair I noticed earlier. This time I don’t stop myself. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
His eyes open one more time, finding mine with surprising clarity despite the medication pulling him under. “Promise?”
The vulnerability in that single word makes my chest tighten. “I promise.”
He seems satisfied with that answer, his grip on my hand relaxing as sleep finally claims him.
I sit there for a long time, watching him breathe, my hand still tangled with his. The steady rise and fall of his chest is hypnotic, reassuring in ways I desperately need after the terror of the past few hours.
Eventually, Maria returns with Dr. Belov to treat my injuries. They work quietly, cleaning and bandaging the cuts on my shoulder and arm, properly splinting my broken finger. I barely register the pain, my attention focused on Pavel’s sleeping form.
“He’ll be fine,” Belov assures me as he finishes the last bandage. “The wound was clean, and he’s strong. He’ll be back to normal within a few weeks.”
“Thank you.” The words feel inadequate for what this man just did—saving Pavel’s life, ensuring I didn’t lose something I hadn’t realized I valued so deeply until it was almost taken away.
They leave me alone again, and I settle back into the chair beside Pavel’s bed. My hand finds his again, our fingers intertwining with surprising naturalness.
This shouldn’t feel right. Sitting here holding hands with the man who forced me into marriage, who kidnapped me and controlled every aspect of my life for weeks.
It does feel right. Disturbingly, perfectly right.
I study his face in the quiet—the strong line of his jaw, the aristocratic nose, the lips that are surprisingly soft despite the hard man they belong to. Even in sleep, there’s controlled power in his features, but the vulnerability underneath is more visible now.
He took a bullet for me.
He did it because in that split second when Kravin’s gun swung toward me, Pavel’s instinct was to protect me. To put himself between me and danger without hesitation or calculation.
My thumb traces circles on the back of his hand, the movement unconscious and soothing. His fingers tighten slightly in response even in sleep, like he’s aware of my presence on some level.
“You’re making this very complicated,” I whisper to his sleeping form. “I’m supposed to hate you. Supposed to be planning escape or finding ways to undermine your control or anything except sitting here terrified at the thought of losing you.”
He doesn’t answer, of course. Just continues breathing steadily, peacefully, alive.