Chapter 10 - Trifon
The door slams open so hard it rattles the hinges.
“Trifon!” Valentin’s voice is hoarse, panicked. He’s carrying someone—arms full of blood and limp limbs—and for a split second, my heart stops cold.
Then I see her face.
Nadya.
Our little sister.
“What the hell has she done now?” I bark, rushing toward them. My stomach flips. Her jeans are soaked through, her arms scraped raw, and her temple is streaked with blood and dirt.
“She raced motorcycles against a couple of guys,” Valentin pants. “Flipped the damn thing.”
“Jesus Christ, Nadya,” I snap, rage and terror choking me all at once. “You’re in college, not the cast of Fast and Furious. What the hell were you thinking?”
Nadya tries to grin. “It’s just a scratch.”
“She lost a lot of blood,” Valentin cuts in. “I didn’t know where else to take her. Traffic was backed up for miles en route to the hospital.”
“I should ground you until you’re fifty!” I roar in panic.
“You can try. But I’m an adult, and there are laws in this country against that sort of thing,” Nadia rolls her head against Valentin’s shoulder.
“Put her down—there, on the couch!” I shout, pointing.
I’m already stripping off my jacket at a frantic pace, my mind running through worst-case scenarios. Fractured spine. Internal bleeding. Concussion. What if it’s worse than it looks?
And then—
“Move,” Yulia says quietly behind me.
I turn, startled. She brushes past me without waiting for permission, her expression already changed. Just moments ago, I had seen her frozen at the sight of Valentin barging through the door with Nadya in his arms, and now? It’s like a switch flipped.
She no longer looks like the wounded, angry woman who hardly spoke to me for days. She looks like she used to—bold, no-nonsense, fucking in charge.
“Put her flat on her back,” she commands Valentin. “Support her head. Legs slightly elevated. Now.”
Valentin obeys immediately.
Yulia kneels beside the couch, her movements quick but careful. “Nadya?” she says gently, pressing her fingers to her wrist. “Can you hear me clearly?”
Nadya blinks up at her. “Wait…who are you?”
My heart begins to race as I notice, just then, Valentin’s eyes widen, recognition drawing in his gaze. Fuck. I haven’t yet told my siblings I got married…And to a Fyodorov, no less.
“I’m a doctor,” Yulia tells her. “And you’re going to be fine, but your ego might take a hit.”
Yulia straightens up, snapping out of her scan with laser focus.
“I need a first aid kit. Big one. Gauze, antiseptic, sutures if you’ve got them, and—” she turns to Valentin, who blinks at her like he’s seeing a ghost, ”—a bag of saline. If there’s an IV stand, bring that too. And gloves. Clean ones.”
Valentin just stands there, still shell-shocked.
“Now, please,” she adds, her tone firm but calm. “We’re wasting time.”
To my shock, my brother—who takes orders from exactly one person in this world, and that’s me—nods and sprints off without question.
I’m still staring at her.
“And you,” she says, spinning toward me, “boil water. Grab towels. A lighter or alcohol to sterilize a pair of scissors. Something sharp. I need to cut her jeans.”
“Cut them?”
Yulia arches an eyebrow. “You want me to peel denim off shredded skin?”
I shake my head, already moving. “Right. I’m on it.”
When I return, she’s slipped off her cardigan and rolled her sleeves to her elbows. Her phone is on the table, flashlight angled upward for focused light. She’s got Nadya talking, asking simple questions in a low, soothing voice.
Valentin bursts back in with an armful of supplies and dumps them on the coffee table. Yulia sifts through as fast as she can.
She slides on gloves like she’s done this a thousand times—which, I suppose, she has. Her hair’s tied up now in a messy knot, a few damp strands curling around her temples. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. I’ve seen men break down at less. But she kneels over Nadya like this is child’s play.
“I’m going to clean the wounds first,” she tells Nadya. “It’s going to sting. A lot.”
“Yay,” Nadya croaks.
Yulia cracks open the saline and pours a steady stream over the denim covering Nadya’s thigh, soaking it through. She waits a beat, then picks up the scissors and slides them under the wet fabric, carefully cutting a clean line through her jeans. The blood-darkened denim parts easily.
Nadya winces, but Yulia murmurs soft encouragements as she exposes the injury.
“Not too deep,” she mutters, more to herself than us. “Torn skin, muscle scrape. We can handle this.”
She repeats the process on Nadya’s arm. I swallow hard, watching her steady hands work like a surgeon. Like a goddess.
“IV next,” she says, twisting toward Valentin. “Hold the bag up high—hook it over that curtain rod if you need to. Trifon, keep pressure here.”
She guides my hand to the edge of Nadya’s thigh.
Yulia slides the IV needle in, taping it down, then adjusts the flow.
Blood, sweat, gauze, vodka-soaked towels sterilized by fire—all of it blends into a blur. But her voice stays calm, cool, anchored.
“You’re doing great, Nadya. Just a few stitches here.” Her hands are steady, her touch light. “Do you always race motorcycles, or is this a new hobby?”
Nadya, more alert now, manages a weak smile. “Since I was sixteen. Dad would’ve killed me if he knew.”
“And yet here we are,” I mutter, earning a glare from Yulia.
“Not helping,” she says shortly before turning back to Nadya. “I’m guessing you’re the family daredevil?”
“Someone has to be,” Nadya replies, wincing as the needle goes through her skin again. “Five older brothers who think they’re in charge of everything. Gets boring.”
Yulia’s laugh is unexpected. “I get that. Three older brothers myself. They think they know everything.”
“They’re the worst,” Nadya agrees, and somehow, impossibly, they’re bonding while Yulia literally sews my sister back together.
She works methodically, cleaning, stitching, and bandaging. The whole time, she speaks to Nadya in that same gentle voice—so at odds with the fire she spits at me whenever we talk.
I exchange glances with Valentin, who looks equally baffled by this development.
When she finally finishes cleaning and wrapping the wounds, she sits back on her heels, her gloves soaked, her shoulders tight.
“She’ll be fine,” Yulia says, glancing between us. “She got lucky.”
Valentin exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re a damn miracle.”
Yulia laughs, removing her gloves. “No. I’m just trained.”
But when she looks down at Nadya—brushing hair back from her clammy forehead—I see something that isn’t in any textbook.
Gentleness. Care. Just heart.
It shouldn’t surprise me. She’s a doctor. But it does.
Because most people who get near Nadya either want to charm her… or hurt her to get to me.
But Yulia? She’s just… helping.
An hour later, Nadya’s patched up, resting on the sofa with color returning to her cheeks. The immediate danger has passed, leaving all of us slightly dazed in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush.
“Thank you,” Nadya says, looking up at Yulia with open admiration. “You’re amazing.”
Yulia shrugs, her cheeks coloring slightly at the praise. “Just doing my job.”
“Are you one of Trifon’s... friends?” Nadya asks, eyes darting between us curiously.
I tense, waiting for Yulia’s response. Will she spit out the truth? Tell my family how I forced her into this marriage?
“I’m Yulia,” she says simply. “Yulia Fyodorov.”
The effect is immediate. Valentin straightens, eyes narrowing. Nadya pales.
“Fyodorov?” Valentin repeats, his eyes now shifting between both of us with suspicion. “As in the—”
“My wife,” I cut in smoothly, moving to stand beside Yulia. “Yulia is my wife.”
The silence that follows is deafening. I can practically hear the gears turning in my siblings’ heads as they process this information.
Nadya recovers first, a grin spreading across her face despite her injuries. “You got married? Without telling us?”
“It was... sudden,” I say, placing my hand on the small of Yulia’s back. She stiffens under my touch but, thankfully, doesn’t pull away.
“Wait, wait,” Nadya pushes herself up slightly, wincing. “You have to come to the gala next week. The whole family will be there.”
“I don’t think—” Yulia begins.
“Please?” Nadya grabs her hand. “You saved my life. Besides, I need someone normal to talk to. My family’s lost its charm.”
I feel Yulia’s hesitation, the slight tremble in her body as she’s caught between refusing and hurting my sister’s feelings.
“I…I’ll be there,” she accepts with a smile, surprising the hell out of me.
Valentin’s eyes haven’t left my face, his expression unreadable to anyone who doesn’t know him as well as I do. But I see the questions, the suspicion.
“Perfect!” Nadya claps her hands with glee. “Now, tell me. How long have you been studying medicine for?”
Valentin grabs my arm the second Nadya pulls Yulia into a conversation, and drags me into the hallway.
“Have you lost your fucking mind?” he hisses, eyes blazing. “A Fyodorov? Are you trying to start a war?”
“Keep your voice down,” I warn, glancing back to make sure Yulia can’t hear us.
“You married Akim Fyodorov’s daughter? Without telling anyone? Without negotiating terms?” Valentin runs a hand through his hair, looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Christ, Trifon, what were you thinking?”
“I’m thinking about protecting our family,” I reply evenly. “The Zakharovs saw her during the shootout. They would have come for her, and when the Fyodorovs found out their princess was in danger because of us—”
“Wait,” Valentin cuts me off. “You married her because of the shootout? That was—that was last week!”
“I know.”
His eyes widen with understanding. “She doesn’t want to be married to you, does she?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” he echoes flatly. “You forced a Fyodorov into marriage, and now you’re bringing her to a family gala? Brother, this is suicide. If her father finds out—”
“He won’t,” I snap. “Not yet. She didn’t even know who her family really was until yesterday.”
That stops him short. “What?”
“They kept her in the dark. She thought her father ran a legitimate import business.”
Valentin stares at me, incredulous. “And you told her?”
“I showed her,” I correct. “Took her to New York. Let her see for herself.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “She must hate you.”
I think of the fire in Yulia’s eyes when she found those files in my office. The way she looked at me on the plane back from New York, like I’d destroyed her world.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But she’s safer with me than alone, especially now that she knows the truth.”
Valentin shakes his head, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. He’s not happy, but he’s working through the logic.
“This is a dangerous game,” he says finally.
“When have we ever played any other kind?” I respond, clapping him on the shoulder. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”
He gives me a long look. “For all our sakes, I hope you do.”
When I return to the living room, Nadya is asleep, and Yulia is gathering the bloodied towels, her movements mechanical, her face downcast with exhaustion.
Valentin stalks off toward the kitchen, muttering something about needing coffee.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. “The staff will clean up.”
She doesn’t stop. “I need to keep my hands busy.”
I watch her for a moment, this woman who just saved my sister’s life. Who showed more kindness to a stranger than most people in our world would ever consider.
“Thank you,” I say finally. “For helping Nadya.”
Yulia pauses, not looking at me. “I didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.” And I do. That’s what makes it so remarkable. “But thank you anyway.”
She straightens, pushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of her wrist. “I’m a doctor. It’s what I do.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why become a doctor?”
The question seems to catch her off guard. She looks at me, really looks at me, for the first time since New York.
“Because I wanted to help people,” she says simply. “I always have. Even as a kid, I was the one bandaging neighborhood pets, patching up scraped knees.”
A bitter smile crosses her face. “I thought I was making my own choices.”
The implication hangs between us—that even this, her passion, might have been orchestrated by her family.
“Some things can’t be faked,” I tell her. “The way you handled yourself just now? No one could force that.”
She looks away, but not before I catch the flicker of gratitude in her eyes.
“I should shower,” she says, glancing down at her blood-stained clothes. “I’m a mess.”
I nod. “Go ahead. I’ll finish here.”
She starts to leave, then hesitates at the doorway. “This gala thing—”
“You don’t have to go,” I cut in. “I’ll make excuses to Nadya.”
“No, it’s not that.” She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “I just... I don’t have anything to wear. All my clothes are still at my apartment, and even if they weren’t—” She gestures vaguely. “I don’t exactly own gala-appropriate attire. Being a resident doesn’t leave much time for social events.”
For some reason, this small admission—this glimpse into the normal life she led before I crashed into it—makes me feel like she’s opening up to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “We’ll figure it out.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
The question catches me off guard. “You just saved my sister’s life. I’m not a complete monster.”
“No,” she agrees softly. “I guess you’re not.”
She turns and heads upstairs, leaving me standing amid the wreckage of the day, my heart beating in a rhythm I don’t quite recognize.
For the first time since this mess began, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—this forced marriage isn’t the disaster I thought it would be.