Chapter 3 Polina
Polina
I’ve been lying to everyone I work with for seven days, and the worst part is how good I’ve gotten at it.
“Luka Sorokin” is progressing well. I update his chart every morning with clinical language boring enough to put anyone to sleep. Vitals stable. Incisions healing. Patient responding well to treatment. No complications. That last part isn’t entirely true.
The complication is me.
I’ve taken over his care. Changed his dressings myself, monitored his blood work, and adjusted his medication. All things I could hand off to residents or nursing staff, and all things I refuse to do because the fewer people who get close to that room, the fewer questions I have to answer.
The “brother” who brought him in has been back every day. He shows up at the start of visiting hours wearing the same ill-fitting suit and sits in the chair beside the bed like a boulder, scowling the entire time and not saying a word to anyone but “Luka”.
The nurses have started avoiding that end of the hallway.
One of them, Karina, told me over coffee that he looked at her like he was trying to figure out the fastest way to snap her neck when she came in to check a monitor.
I laughed it off and told her some patients’ families are just overprotective.
She wasn’t convinced.
I’m halfway through morning rounds when Dr. Savin catches up to me outside the supply closet. He’s a good surgeon. Steady hands, decent instincts, and an unfortunate habit of noticing things that aren’t his business.
“Dr. Kozlov, can I have a word?”
“What’s up?” I keep it casual as I reach for a fresh set of sterile wrappings.
“The patient in 412. Sorokin.” He leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “You’ve been managing him personally all week.”
“I have.”
“Any particular reason? It’s a fairly standard case. Granted, the injuries are severe for a workplace accident, but it’s nothing a fourth-year resident couldn’t handle with supervision.”
“Delayed hemorrhage happens more often than the textbooks suggest, and I’d rather catch it myself than find out a resident missed something at three in the morning.”
Savin squints at me. “You look tired, Polina.”
“I’m always tired. I work at a hospital.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been pulling doubles all month, and now you’re babysitting a guy who should have been moved to a step-down unit two days ago. If you need help—”
“I don’t need help.” I take a breath and soften my tone because Savin doesn’t deserve the edge creeping in. “Appreciate the concern. Really. But I’ve got it under control.”
He holds up both hands. “All right. Just making sure.”
He walks away, and I stand still for ten seconds, reminding myself to breathe. Savin isn’t suspicious; he’s concerned. There’s a difference, and I need to stop treating every question like an interrogation before I give myself away.
The rest of my rounds are uneventful. I check on a post-op knee replacement, consult on an incoming transfer from a regional hospital, and review lab results for a patient with a stubborn infection that won’t respond to antibiotics.
Normal work, autopilot stuff, which is both a blessing and a problem because autopilot gives my brain room to wander.
It wanders to room 412.
It wanders to pale blue eyes and the rough voice that called me “Doctor” like it was a private joke.
To the smirk he wore, and the low pull I felt in my belly when I realized he had the audacity to flirt with me in his condition.
I can still feel the scorching heat climbing my neck while he watched with a satisfaction that made me want to slap him and climb onto his lap in equal measure.
Every time I get within arm’s reach of that man, my body forgets which side of this war I’m supposed to be on.
It doesn’t help that I can still feel his abdominal muscles twitching under my fingertips.
Good God, that man is sculpted. I keep catching myself looking for excuses to check his bandages just to feel him again, which is the furthest thing from professional.
Every time, I tell myself the warmth that spreads between my thighs is just exhaustion playing tricks on me.
The lie gets harder to sell with each repetition.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see Daria’s name on the screen.
Guilt hits before I can brace for it. My sister has called me three times this week, and I’ve dodged each one.
She’s used to me being difficult to reach.
Between the time I had to dedicate to studies while I was in college and now my schedule at the hospital, I’ve been tough to reach for years now.
Daria will just think it’s par for the course.
She has no idea I’m harboring the enemy in my hospital.
I stare at her name until the buzzing stops, then I slide the phone back into my pocket and keep walking.
I can’t talk to her right now. Not with Lev Morozov recovering down the hall.
If Daria hears even a trace of guilt in my voice, she’ll push, and if she pushes, I’ll crack.
That’s what she does. She finds the fracture and applies pressure until everything spills out, and I love her for it under normal circumstances. Right now, it would destroy us both.
The worst part is that she’s probably worried.
Daria doesn’t call three times in a week unless something is on her mind, and my dodging her only feeds it.
I picture her in St. Petersburg, phone in one hand and Kira by her side, frowning at the screen and wondering what the hell is going on with her sister.
Calling her back and telling her everything is fine is the kind thing to do, but the word “fine” would taste like poison, and Daria has always been able to hear a lie before I finish telling it.
The day drags on. I discharge two patients, prep for tomorrow’s scheduled surgery, and eat a sandwich at my desk from the cafeteria that tastes like cardboard.
By 9 p.m., the floor has quieted down, and most of the day staff have gone home.
Going home would be the smart thing to do.
I should let the night team handle rounds, and get some actual sleep for once.
Instead, I grab fresh gauze and medical tape and head for room 412.
His room is dark when I push the door open. Television off. Curtains drawn. He’s propped up against the pillows with his eyes closed, and for a second, I think he’s asleep.
Then I notice the book on his lap. Something thick; I can’t make out the title from the doorway. His injured hand rests on the pages, the bandaged fingers splayed carefully to avoid pressure on the healing fractures.
“Mr. Sorokin,” I whisper. “I need to change your bandages.”
His eyes snap open like he knew I was there before I spoke. The pale blue irises lock onto mine, and my traitorous body responds with a throb between my legs that I absolutely did not give it permission to produce.
The corners of his mouth curve up just enough to let me know he’s been waiting. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me, Doctor.”
“Hospitals don’t run themselves.” I set the supplies on the bedside table and pull on a pair of exam gloves. “Sit up, please.”
He pushes himself upright and tries to hide the wince that crosses his face. Three bullet wounds don’t forgive quickly, no matter how stubborn the patient. I notice he’s ditched the hospital gown for a plain black T-shirt, which means the “brother” smuggled in clothes.
The T-shirt is a problem. It fits him too well, stretching across his chest and shoulders, accentuating the muscles that make my mouth dry. I drag my attention back to the task at hand.
“Lift your shirt,” I tell him.
He does as I ask, pulling the fabric up to his ribs with his good hand. Underneath, his abdomen is bruised skin and sutures and lean muscle that has no right looking this good on a man who was bleeding out a week ago.
I peel back the old dressing and lean in. It’s healing cleanly, with no redness, swelling, or sign of the delayed hemorrhage I used as an excuse with Savin. The sutures are holding, and the surrounding skin looks healthy.
I press two fingers gently beside the wound to check for tenderness, and his stomach contracts under my touch.
The muscle flexes hard beneath my hand, and I hear him pull in a slow, controlled inhale through his nose.
My eyes stay locked on the sutures because looking up would put us six inches apart, and I will not be held responsible for what my face does.
Every one of his inhales moves the muscles beneath my fingertips, and I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that we’re alone and my hand is on his body. The ache between my thighs worsens, and I clench my jaw to keep from making a sound.
I reach across him for the fresh gauze on the opposite side of the cart, and his fingers brush mine.
Not by accident. Definitely not a grab. Just the lightest graze of his knuckles across the back of my hand as I stretch past him. Barely a touch at all.
Yet it tears through me like voltage. My nipples harden under my scrubs, and the throb low in my belly turns into a full-body pulse that makes my knees weak.
I drop the gauze. It tumbles onto the floor, and I take a full step back before I’ve made the conscious decision to move.
“Sorry,” I manage. “Let me get a new one.”
I turn away and busy myself pulling a fresh packet, using those three seconds to get my shit together. My pulse is hammering, the skin where he touched me is still buzzing, and the sensation skitters up my arm and down into my core.
This is adrenaline. That’s what this is. I’m running on fumes and stress and the constant low-grade terror of being caught, and my body is confusing danger with something else.
That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
When I turn back, he’s watching me. No smirk this time, no teasing. Just watching. His gaze drops to my hands, where I’m holding the gauze packet hard enough to dent the packaging, and then it travels back up to my face.
He doesn’t say a word. The bastard doesn’t have to. He knows what just happened.
I step forward and finish the job as quickly as possible. Fresh dressing on the abdomen. Quick check on the shoulder wound, which I manage without getting close enough to feel his body heat. A glance at the hand to make sure the splint is intact.
“You’re healing well.” I try my best to sound detached. “At this rate, you’ll be ready for discharge within the week.”
“And then what?”
I pull off the exam gloves and drop them in the bin. “And then you go home, Mr. Sorokin. That’s how hospitals work.”
“I know how hospitals work, Doctor. I’m asking what happens between us when I leave.”
I let out a nervous schoolgirl giggle that is downright embarrassing. I’m a doctor, for Christ’s sakes. Doctors don’t giggle.
“There is no ‘us.’ There’s a patient and a surgeon, and when the patient is discharged, that relationship ends.”
He holds eye contact, steady and unblinking, and his face tells me he doesn’t believe a word I just said. That makes two of us.
“Have a good night,” I add, and I hate how breathless it sounds.
I grab my supplies and walk out without looking back, because looking back would mean acknowledging the pull in my core that’s begging me to stay, and I refuse to give it the satisfaction.
Halfway down the corridor, I duck into the staff bathroom and hold onto the edge of the sink with both hands. My reflection stares back at me with flushed cheeks and blown pupils and the look of a woman who is in way over her head.
This is adrenaline, I tell myself again.
The woman in the mirror doesn’t believe me, either.