A Baby for the BRATVA Soldier (A Baby for the BRATVA #3)

Lily

The numbers blur together after the third time I check them.

I lean back in the chair and press my fingers against my eyes, trying to will away the headache building behind them.

The bakery has been closed for over an hour, the front lights off, the sign turned neatly in the door window.

It’s already getting dark out. The laptop screen glows on the table in front of me, next to a coffee that went cold a while ago.

Spreadsheet cells full of red numbers that refuse to turn black no matter how many times I rearrange them, stare up at me.

The supplier email sits open in another tab. Payment overdue. Final notice before suspension of service.

A normal person would panic. Instead, I feel numb.

The calculator sits beside my elbow, numbers I've already checked twice scrawled on a notepad. Rent. Utilities. Ingredients. Insurance. The list goes on, each line item a small cut that adds up to something fatal.

I'm not breaking even. Haven't been for months.

The bakery smells like yeast and butter, the ghost of this morning's batch of cinnamon rolls still lingering.

Best baker in town, the newspaper article said when I first opened.

Didn't mention that being the best doesn't matter when people can't afford the price tag that comes with freshly made produce.

I close the laptop and stand, my body moving on autopilot as I start the end of day routine. Wipe down tables and counters. Check the ovens. Count the float. The familiar motions usually calm me, but tonight they just feel heavy.

My aunt left me this place. Her legacy, her dream, now my anchor and my albatross. I’ve tried so hard to make this work. Every step just seemed so much more difficult than I’d anticipated. But blame doesn't matter when the numbers don't work.

I'm in the kitchen rinsing the last mixing bowl when I hear it.

A knock.

I freeze, water still running over my hands.

Silence.

Then another knock. Heavier this time.

My pulse kicks up, adrenaline cutting through the exhaustion. I dry my hands and move toward the front, peering through the kitchen doorway.

Another knock. This time, my eyes snap into focus on the man’s face, his forehead resting against the glass, his jaw set in tight lines.

My feet move before I’ve finished processing what I’m seeing. Years of nursing kick in, that instinct that overrides common sense when someone might be hurt. I cross the bakery floor and reach for the deadbolt.

Stop. Think. This could be dangerous.

But my hand is already turning the lock.

I crack the door open.

The man is slumped against the frame. Huge. That's my first thought. He's massive, easily six-three, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark clothes that might be black or just soaked through with something darker.

Blood.

There's so much blood.

"Jesus," I breathe, and the door swings wide.

His head lifts slightly. Eyes meet mine, pale, ice-grey, storm-colored. Focused despite the obvious pain etched into his sharp features.

"Help," he rasps. Just one word, but it's enough.

My nurse brain takes over completely.

"Can you walk?" I ask, already moving to support his weight.

He nods, teeth clenched beneath a grimace.

"Inside. Now."

He's heavy, leaning against me as I help him stumble through the door. I kick it shut behind us and guide him past the counter, through the kitchen, to the back stairs that lead to my apartment above the bakery.

Each step is agony for him. I can feel it in the way his muscles lock up, the way his breathing goes shallow and controlled. But he doesn't make a sound.

We make it upstairs. I steer him to the couch and he collapses onto it, his body too large for the small space. His eyes close briefly, and for a terrifying second, I think he might pass out.

"Stay awake," I say sharply. "Eyes open."

They open. Lock on mine.

I move fast, pulling my old nursing kit from the hall closet. I haven't used it in two years, but muscle memory doesn't forget. Gloves. Saline. Gauze. Antiseptic. Dressings. Bandages.

"Where are you hit?" I ask, already reaching for his jacket.

"Shoulder. Side. Maybe more. Can't tell anymore."

I pull away his shirt with practiced care and help him out of it. The fabric is soaked, stuck to his skin with clotting blood. Underneath, his torso is a landscape of muscle and ink, black tattoos covering his chest, his arms, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

And blood. Fresh, bright red, welling from a wound high on his left shoulder and one lower down just above his waist.

I assess quickly, hands steady despite the situation. Entry wound, clean. I shift him slightly to check his back. Exit wound. Through and through. Sam with the just below his ribs.

Thank God.

"You're lucky," I tell him, reaching for the gauze. "Missed the subclavian artery. Missed bone. Clean through."

"Feels lucky," he mutters, voice rough with sarcasm and pain.

I roll my eyes and get back to work. “Play with guns, you’ll get hurt.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

I clean the wounds efficiently, packing them with gauze, applying pressure. The bleeding is slowing, which is good. No arterial spray. No signs of internal hemorrhaging.

"What's your name?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

"Zakhar."

"Zakhar," I repeat. "I'm Lily. You need antibiotics. You need proper medical care. You should be in a hospital."

"No hospital."

The words are flat, final. No room for argument.

I meet his eyes. They're clearer now, the initial shock wearing off. He's watching me with an intensity that would usually make me uncomfortable. But I'm too focused on the work.

"Then you're an idiot," I say bluntly.

"Probably."

"Who shot you?"

Silence.

I don't push. I think to myself with a shake of my head as I finish cleaning the entry wound, then shift him to access his back. The exit wound is messier, but manageable. I work in silence, packing gauze, wrapping bandages around his torso with practiced hands.

His skin is hot under my fingers. Fever starting, or just adrenaline. Hard to tell.

“You need stitches and I don’t have any equipment for that.” I shake my head, rummaging through my supplies. A packet of butterfly strips. I sigh. They’ll just have to do.

"You’re a nurse," he says. Not a question.

"Was."

"Why past tense?"

I secure the last dressing and sit back, pulling off the gloves. "Long story."

"We have time."

"No, we don’t. You can rest here, but tomorrow you need to leave. Do you have anyone I can call?"

His eyes hold mine. Something shifts in them, something I can't quite read.

“Your bedside manner is lacking,” he grunts, shifting to get more comfortable on my now bloodstained couch. Another expense I can’t afford.

"Why are you so eager to get rid of me?"

My heart does a strange stutter. I ignore it.

“Because,” I counter, looking straight into his eyes, “you’ve just turned up on my doorstep shot, for god knows what reason, and the last thing I need is to be dragged into something I have no interest being in.”

I clear away the detritus from around him, dropping it all into a plastic bag to dispose of.

"Yes. I patched you up. You rest. Then you go. That's how this works."

"If you say so."

I stand, gathering the bloody gauze and used supplies. "I do say so. This is my home. You're a guest. A temporary guest."

"Okay."

He says it easily, but something in his tone makes me think he's lying.

I dispose of the medical waste and throw his shirt in the washing machine before washing my hands thoroughly in the kitchen sink. I let the hot water run longer than necessary. My hands are shaking now that the adrenaline is fading.

What the hell did I just do?

I let a bleeding stranger into my home. A man with a gunshot wound who refuses to go to the hospital. A man who might be running from something, or someone, far more dangerous than I want to be involved in.

This is insane.

But when I turn around, he's still there on my couch, breathing and bandaged and watching me with those winter-cold eyes, and I know I've already made my choice.

"You need water," I say, filling a glass. "And something for the pain. I have ibuprofen."

"That'll do."

I bring him both. He takes them without comment, swallowing the pills dry before drinking the water in three long pulls.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. You might still die of infection."

"Optimistic."

"Realistic." I cross my arms, suddenly aware of how close I'm standing. How large he is, even injured and slumped on the couch. How the air between us feels thick with anticipation.

I pull out my old blood pressure machine and oximeter, making a note of his observations. They aren’t bad, considering…

"You should sleep," I say. "I'll check your observations and bandages in a few hours."

"Where will you sleep?"

"My bed. You're on the couch."

He nods, eyes already drifting closed. "Fair."

I watch him for a moment longer. His breathing evens out, the tension in his shoulders easing as exhaustion takes over. He almost looks peaceful.

The tattoos that cover his skin tell a different story. Symbols I don't recognize. Words in a language I can't read. This is a man who lives in a world I know nothing about.

I splay open my hand, hovering it over his left pectoral, beneath the dressing that is already showing signs of the wound beneath. My hand barely covers him and draws my attention to scars that are almost hidden between the blooms of ink beneath his skin.

Taking a deep breath, I straighten up. What was I thinking letting him in here?

Returning downstairs, I wipe the smears of blood from the doorstep and window, and deadbolt the door. I clean the drops from the floor and gather up my laptop.

Turning off the lights, I head to my bedroom, leaving the door cracked so I can hear if he needs anything.

In the dark, lying in my bed, I stare at the ceiling and try to process what just happened.

A stranger was bleeding on my doorstep, and I let him in.

I treated his wounds and made sure he was safe.

And now he's in my home, sleeping on my couch, and something in my gut tells me that one night won't be enough. Not for him.

I'm too tired to think about it now. Too numb from months of exhaustion and stress and pretending the numbers will somehow fix themselves if I just keep pushing through.

Tomorrow I'll worry about what I've done.

Tonight, I just need to sleep.

I close my eyes and try to ignore the awareness prickling at the base of my spine. The knowledge that everything just changed, and there's no going back.