Chapter 20
Maya
The door to Kostya's office had never looked this intimidating.
I'd walked past it a hundred times. Had poked my head in when dinner was ready, had knocked to tell him Zmeya was trying to eat his bootlaces again, had leaned against the doorframe while he finished phone calls in Russian that I pretended not to understand.
Just a door. Oak, heavy, probably reinforced because bratva, but still—just a door.
Tonight, though, it felt like a portal to somewhere I wasn't sure I was brave enough to go.
My stomach was doing acrobatics. Butterflies, sure, but also something sharper. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff knowing you were about to jump.
We'd talked about this. Weeks ago, in the dark, when confessions came easier. When the weight of Kostya's arm across my waist made me feel brave enough to say things I'd never admitted to anyone.
"There's this thing," I'd whispered, staring at the ceiling instead of him. "This fantasy. It's stupid."
"Tell me." Not a request. A command, but gentle.
"Medical stuff. Being examined." I'd felt my face burn in the darkness. "Like, a doctor's appointment, except—not. Someone clinical and detached, taking control. Telling me what to do. Looking at me like I'm—" I'd stopped, embarrassed. "Like I said. Stupid."
He'd been quiet for long enough that I'd started to panic. Started composing the explanation of why he should forget I'd ever mentioned it, why it was probably some weird manifestation of my career trauma, why—
"Not stupid," he'd said finally. His hand had tightened on my hip. "Interesting."
And then nothing. No discussion, no follow-up, no indication he'd filed it anywhere except the mental trash bin where normal people put their partner's weird confessions.
Until the note.
I'd found it this morning on my pillow, written in his precise handwriting on compound stationery like it was official bratva business.
Dr. Besharov will see you at 9 PM. Please be prompt. Dress code: sundress. Nothing else.
Nothing else. Two words that had made me go hot and then cold and then hot again, standing in our bedroom at seven in the morning with cat hair on my scrubs and a note that suggested my boyfriend—no, my fiancé—had been paying a lot more attention than I'd realized.
Now here I was. 8:58 PM. Sundress—white with tiny blue flowers, one I'd bought months ago and never worn because it felt too pretty for my disaster of a life.
Nothing underneath. The fabric whispered against my bare skin every time I shifted weight, reminding me of my vulnerability with every breath.
My medical brain was having a field day.
Kostya has zero clinical training, it informed me helpfully. The man couldn't find a spleen with a map and a flashlight. He pronounces "tachycardia" like it's a pasta dish. Remember when he asked if the appendix was near the knee?
I remembered. I'd laughed so hard I'd snorted coffee through my nose.
But here's the thing about fantasies: they don't care about credentials.
My body didn't give a single damn that the man behind this door couldn't tell a stethoscope from a blood pressure cuff.
It was already responding to the idea of it—the clinical detachment, the power dynamic, the surrender of control to someone who would take care of everything while I just .
. . existed. Let myself be examined. Let myself be seen.
God. I was already wet and he hadn't even touched me.
The sundress felt too thin. Too revealing, despite covering more than plenty of outfits I'd worn in public. Maybe because I knew what was underneath it. Or rather, what wasn't.
I pressed my thighs together. Didn't help at all.
Just knock, I told myself. It's Kostya. He's seen you ugly cry over a documentary about penguins. He's braided your hair while you were too tired to lift your arms. He's held you through nightmares about operating rooms and patients you couldn't save. This is nothing.
Except it wasn't nothing. It was trusting him with the weird, shameful corners of my brain that I'd kept hidden from everyone, including myself.
I knocked.
The sound was too loud in the quiet hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs. One beat. Two.
"Enter."
His voice came through the door and I almost didn't recognize it.
Not Kostya's voice. Not the gravelly rumble I'd grown addicted to, the one that called me little bird and kitten and sometimes just mine in a tone that made my knees weak. This was different. Formal. Clinical.
The voice of a man playing a role he intended to play thoroughly.
I turned the handle.
The door swung open, and everything I thought I knew about this room—about this man—rearranged itself into something new.
He was waiting.
And Dr. Besharov, apparently, was ready to see me.
The office had been transformed.
Kostya's usual chaos—the stacks of paperwork, the weapons cleaning supplies, the half-empty coffee cups that accumulated despite my nagging—had vanished.
The desk was cleared except for three items: a manila folder that I assumed was my "chart," a stethoscope that looked genuinely medical-grade, and a pair of reading glasses I had never once seen him wear.
Where had he even gotten a stethoscope? I had one at the clinic, but this wasn't mine. This was different. New. Like he'd actually gone out and purchased medical equipment specifically for this.
My chest did something complicated.
Then I looked at him, and complicated became catastrophic.
Kostya sat behind the desk in a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms in that way that made women in grocery stores walk into displays.
The tattoos at his collar peeked out just enough to remind me who I was dealing with.
No tie—that would've been too much, probably—but the top button was undone, and the reading glasses were perched on his nose with an authority that had no business being that attractive.
He looked like a distinguished physician. If distinguished physicians were built like tanks, covered in criminal tattoos, and capable of killing men with their bare hands.
My thighs pressed together again. Still didn't help.
"Miss Cross." He spoke like I was a patient he'd never met. "Please, have a seat."
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. The one where bratva associates usually sat to receive instructions or deliver reports. Tonight, apparently, it was the examination room.
I sat. The sundress rode up my thighs slightly, and I resisted the urge to tug it down. Nothing underneath meant every shift of fabric was a reminder.
Kostya opened the folder with clinical efficiency. The reading glasses made him look older. Smarter. Like he actually knew what he was doing instead of playing pretend in his own office.
"I understand you're here for a comprehensive examination," he said, eyes on the folder. "Let's begin with some basic history."
His pen was poised. His face was neutral. He was really committing to this.
Something warm unfurled in my stomach. Not just arousal—though there was plenty of that—but affection. Gratitude. This ridiculous, dangerous man had listened to my whispered confession and built this whole scenario because he wanted to give me what I'd been too embarrassed to ask for properly.
"Full name?" he asked.
"Maya Angeline Cross."
"Date of birth?"
I gave it. He wrote it down. His handwriting was careful, deliberate—not the chicken scratch I'd seen on bratva documents.
"Allergies?"
"Penicillin. Shellfish."
More writing. The pen scratched against paper in the quiet room. Somewhere in the compound, I could hear the distant sound of someone moving around—probably security doing rounds—but in here, it was just us. Just the scratch of pen on paper and my too-loud breathing.
"Medical history? Prior surgeries?"
"Tonsillectomy, age eight. Appendectomy, age fourteen." I paused. "And I'm a physician myself, so I should mention—"
"That won't be relevant to this examination." He didn't look up. "I'll be conducting my own assessment. Your professional background doesn't change the protocols."
God. His voice was so fucking steady. So clinical. Like this was actually happening, like he was actually a doctor and I was actually a patient and nothing unusual was occurring at all.
Heat crept up my neck.
"Sexual activity," he said, still in that same neutral tone. "Frequency?"
I blinked. "I—what?"
"Sexual activity." He looked up then, eyes meeting mine over the rim of those glasses. Grey eyes, the color of winter storms, completely unreadable. "How frequently are you engaging in sexual intercourse?"
My face was on fire. "Um. Regularly?"
"Please be specific. The chart requires accurate data."
The chart. Right. The folder full of nothing that he was pretending was medical documentation.
"Daily," I managed. "Sometimes more."
He wrote it down. His expression didn't change.
"Partners?"
"One."
"Duration of current relationship?"
"About four months. Three if you count from when we—" I stopped. How much detail was he looking for? "Three months."
More writing. The pen scratched. He turned a page in the folder like there was actually more paperwork to review.
"Any recent changes in sexual function? Pain, discomfort, abnormal discharge?"
I was going to die. I was going to spontaneously combust right here in this chair while my future husband asked me clinical questions about my vagina with a perfectly straight face.
"No. Everything's—normal."
"Mmm." He made a noncommittal sound, still studying the folder. "And what about psychological symptoms? Anxiety? Intrusive thoughts? Difficulty concentrating?"
"Some anxiety," I admitted, because my heart was hammering so hard I was pretty sure he could hear it across the desk. "Right now, specifically."
He looked up again. Those grey eyes tracked over my face with the kind of assessment that made me feel transparent.