Chapter 3 - Yulia
The coffee’s burnt, bitter, and scalds my tongue—but at this hour, caffeine is caffeine.
I wrap both hands around the flimsy paper cup and lean against the stone pillar just outside the ER entrance, letting the cool night air slap me awake. My legs ache, my eyelids droop, and my brain is already replaying charts on a loop. Another fourteen-hour shift survived.
Barely.
I close my eyes for a second, breathing in the sharp Boston air.
That’s when I hear entitled commands piercing through the air. I turn to find the cause of the commotion and see the tattooed terror from earlier, barking into his phone as if he owns the airwaves. Great. So much for peace and quiet.
My stomach tightens instantly. I should go back inside and give him his privacy. I really should. But curiosity keeps me planted in place, hidden partly by the shadow of the ambulance bay overhang.
There’s something magnetic about the furious, dangerous-looking guy.
The one who practically turned the ER into a war zone with his barking orders and sky-high demands. Arrogant, entitled, absolutely infuriating… and, annoyingly, built like every woman’s bad decision wrapped in sinful packaging.
His sleeves are still rolled up, tattoos snaking down his forearms, jaw set tight.
In the harsh glow of the streetlights, I get a clearer look at him.
Black button-down stretched across broad shoulders, dark blue eyes as deep as an ocean, every step taken like a man who has never questioned his worth.
And he’s big. Not just tall, but broad. The kind of man who takes up all the oxygen in a room just by existing.
The kind of man my mother warned me about.
“Get over here,” he growls. “Leonid and Iosif. Miron, make sure the house is ready for him.”
His voice is the kind that expects to be obeyed without question.
“I’ll handle it. You three better not get involved.”
I take a slow sip of coffee, half-listening despite myself. His accent is faint, but the Russian is there beneath the surface, woven between every clipped, dominant word. I continue listening by default. Hear him say something about prepping the crew and being ready for payback.
What the hell is his deal? Payback? My doctor brain kicks in, trying to piece together what happened to his brother. Gunshot wound. Lower abdomen. Obviously, not a hunting accident.
I take another sip of coffee, trying to be invisible. I shouldn’t be eavesdropping on what’s clearly some kind of criminal business. But my feet won’t move. It’s like watching a dangerous animal in the wild—fascinating.
My curiosity burns brighter than my common sense, and I realize too late I’m staring—just as his eyes cut toward me. Our gazes collide, his sharp and assessing, mine wide with busted guilt.
Shit.
I’ve been caught staring. And not just staring—full-on analyzing. My cheeks burn, but I refuse to look away. I’ve faced down attendings who made residents cry. I won’t cower from some tattooed thug, no matter how handsome.
And yes, fine, he’s objectively gorgeous in that “could definitely murder someone and get away with it” kind of way. Sue me for noticing. I’m sleep-deprived, not dead.
The phone lowers from his ear, and his full attention snaps onto me.
My spine stiffens as he doesn’t look away.
“Problem?” I ask defensively, trying to drown my embarrassment in bravado. “Or do you always stare down the hospital staff after causing a scene?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up in the laziest, most irritating smirk I’ve ever seen. God help me, even his arrogance looks good.
Then, to my horror, he starts walking toward me. The way he moves reminds me of the lions I saw at the Bronx Zoo as a kid—all coiled muscle and deadly grace.
My pulse skyrockets, but I stand my ground.
Once he’s right in front of me, his eyes narrow in recognition, taking me in from head to toe. “You’re the doctor from earlier. The one telling me what to do.”
”I wasn’t telling anyone what to do,” I snap. “I was doing my job. You should try letting people do that sometimes instead of yelling down the walls.”
I brace, ready for the temper I witnessed earlier—the fury, the shouting, the zero-to-hundred explosion.
But it doesn’t come.
He just studies me with those too intense eyes. Up close, they’re not just blue—they’re midnight blue with flecks of ice. Beautiful in a way I haven’t seen before in real life.
He leans casually against the wall, one hand tucked into his pocket. His posture oozes confidence, and the raw edge from earlier? It’s gone. In its place is charm. “Didn’t think you were the type.”
I arch a brow. “The type?”
“To bark orders at me,” his gaze drags over me in a way that gets my pulse racing. “Most people don’t.”
“Most people don’t storm into hospitals screaming their heads off,” I shoot back, pulse fluttering annoyingly beneath my skin. “So maybe don’t set the bar so low.”
That smirk deepens, full of arrogant amusement. The temper I braced for? Nowhere to be found. Instead, his whole posture shifts to a relaxed one.
“You always talk to strangers like this? Tell them off?”
“Only the ones who cause a scene and scare half the ER,” I fire back, ignoring the pull tightening between us. The burn of his gaze. The way the night feels heavy with more than just exhaustion.
He pushes off the pillar, the space between us shrinking by a step. Not close enough to invade, but enough that my pulse jumps. His voice stays quiet, but there’s that edge again. “You handled yourself well back there,” his voice is like a caress. “Dr. Yulia.”
God. I want to tell him off. Want to remind him that I wouldn’t have had to handle myself if he remembered his basic civic sense.
Instead, my spine stiffens. “How do you know my name?”
He taps a finger toward my badge, completely unbothered. “You’re wearing it. Not great for maintaining mystery, Yulia.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue—familiar, low, accented just enough to make my stomach twist—it shouldn’t rattle me, but it does.
“You always make it a habit to stare at women’s chests?” I shoot back, ignoring the flush crawling up my neck.
His eyes gleam, amused. “Only when there’s information worth reading.” His gaze sweeps over me again, slower this time, voice dipping. “You look like you’ve been on your feet for a whole day. You must be running on fumes.”
This—this switch from explosive rage to disarming charm—it’s practiced. Weaponized. Men like him know how to play both sides of the coin. Dangerous temper when they want to terrify you, smirking charisma when they want to pull you in close.
“Your brother’s stable, which means I get to be home soon, so don’t worry about me,” I try to regain some professional ground before the boundaries get too frazzled. “The nurse told you?”
“She did. Thank you.”
I blink. That’s... not what I was expecting. He’s being…polite?
“Well, then…maybe you should take him home,” I take a step back.
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “Do I intimidate you, Doctor?”
I roll my eyes and stare at him incredulously, nearly shrieking now. “You don’t intimidate me. I’ve faced down surgeons who make grown men cry, and despite your efforts to bully everyone in the hospital tonight, your tactics, I’m afraid, fall flat on me!”
I cross my arms and am prepared to give him a piece of my mind when he breaks into a grin.
“You’re feisty, you know that? For someone so small.”
Okay. Now I’m thoroughly offended at being called small. This man—he truly has no fucking filter, does he? The best thing to do would be to extract myself from this conversation before I dock him in the eye.
“Look here, Mr—”
“Trifon Yuri,” he offers with a charming smile.
“Whatever.” I stand straighter. Your brother’s going to need follow-up care. Make sure he takes his antibiotics and comes back to have the wound checked in three days.”
“Are you changing the subject, Doctor?” He looks amused.
“I’m doing my job,” I counter. “And if you’d let us do our jobs earlier instead of causing a scene,” I snap, “maybe someone would have mustered up the courage to give you the discharge instructions. People in there? They’re trying to find a scapegoat to come talk to you, you know?”
Trifon’s grin deepens. “You always this difficult?”
“You act like a jerk, people treat you like one,” I shoot back, arms still crossed, pulse thrumming annoyingly fast. “And before you ask—no, I don’t care how charming you think you are.”
His eyes glint, like I’ve just handed him the perfect challenge. “Charming?” He steps in slightly, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him. “I haven’t even started trying yet.”
God, the audacity. I tilt my head, about to deliver a world-class shutdown, when movement over his shoulder freezes the words in my throat.
Three men. Dark jackets. Fast, coordinated strides cutting across the edge of the lot.
My brain reacts faster than my mouth.
“Hey…” I step around Trifon slightly, coffee forgotten, pulse jacking into overdrive. “Behind you—”
The first gunshot shatters the night.
My stomach drops as the sound ricochets through the parking lot, hot coffee sloshing down my hand, the cup slipping and smashing against the concrete. Fear crawls down my spine, and my body moves on instinct—duck, cover, find shelter—but strong fingers wrap around my arm before I get the chance.
Trifon yanks me toward him, his other hand already moving, reaching beneath his jacket, gun drawn so fast I barely register it.
“Stay down,” he orders, voice cold steel now, the charming grin obliterated.
The next shot cracks through the air as chaos detonates around us.