Page 14 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

I don’t need to look down to know what she’s seeing; I can feel it sticking to my chest.

“Pull over right now, you absolute fucking moron. Why didn’t you say something? Pull over—”

“Raya—”

“PULL. THE. FUCK. OVER.”

I pull over. Not because she ordered me to—okay, exactly because she ordered me to—I need a moment… or five. Holy shit, it hurts like an absolute bastard.

She’s out of the car before I’ve fully stopped, the passenger door slamming shut as she sprints around to my side, yanking my door open with a force that nearly takes it off its hinges. Up close, her face is as white as a sheet, her dark pupils dilated from panic, and she’s still utterly mesmerizing. The cold winter wind is howling through the shattered windshield, dusting her dark auburn hair with tiny glints of glass, but she doesn’t even blink. I would take this bullet ten times over before I’d let one land anywhere near her.

“Get out,” she says, her voice snapping like a whip. “I’m driving.”

“I can manage—”

“Like fuck you can, and kill us both? Move it, pretty boy.”

“Did you just call me pretty?” I manage a smile—well, probably a grimace—as I try to shift my weight to get myself out of the driver’s seat. The movement sends a bolt of white-hot agony straight down my spine, and my vision blurs. My knees buckle instantly. Before I can hit the asphalt, Raya leans down, her arms sliding under my good left side, anchoring her body against mine to pull me up.

“Are you trying to flirt with me while bleeding to death on the side of the road?” she pants, her shoulder pressed against my chest as she bears my weight.

“Can’t a man flirt with his wife?” I give her a weak wink, my breath rattling in my throat. She can’t be mad. I’m dying.

“Get in the back of this car before I kill you myself, husband of mine.” She cocks her head to one side, daring me to disagree, while she holds open the rear passenger door.

I duck, sliding backward onto the edge of the leather seat, my boots dangling out of the open door as I lean heavily against the headrest. The interior of the car smells like iron, burned rubber, and the faint vanilla of her perfume.

“Help me get the shirt off,” I tell her, my voice dropping an octave as the sweat begins to bead on my forehead. “The leather jacket first. Left sleeve. Carefully.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment, her hands moving with an efficiency that surprises me. She grabs the cuff of my left sleeve, gently easing it off my good arm. But when she reaches the right shoulder, she freezes. The fabric of my T-shirt is saturated, glued to my skin by a thick, darkening pool of crimson.

I watch her swallow hard, her fingers trembling slightly as she evaluates the damage. This is the moment most normal people vomit or bolt. But Raya is a Volkov. She takes a sharp breath, sets her jaw, and reaches into the first aid kit and pulls out a small pair of scissors.

With a careful Snip. Snip. She slices the fabric right down the center, peeling the wet cloth away from my chest. This is the first time she’s seen me shirtless. I’ve kept myself intentionally covered in bed, so she’d feel safe, hiding the scars my father carved into my skin over a lifetime of corrections. Under any other circumstances, I’d enjoy the way her eyes soak in my chest. I keep myself in shape, but right now, I need her eyes on the bleeding hole, not my six-pack.

“Yes, anyway,” she mutters, a sudden flush of color rising up her neck, though she tries to mask it by throwing the ruined fabric onto the floorboards. Her eyes meet mine, and I give her the yeah, I know what you were looking at look. Let the woman blush. It keeps her mind off the blood. “Tell me what to do.”

“I need you to check for an exit wound at the back of my shoulder,” I tell her, my breathing shallow. “Is there one?”

She slides onto the seat beside me, her knees pressing against my thigh, crowding me into the small cabin. She leans around my torso, her bare hands flattening against the skin of my back to steady herself. The touch of her palms is a shocking contrast—freezing cold against my feverish skin.

“Yes,” she says, her breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, sending a counterproductive shiver down my arms. “It’s—it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. It’s small. Clean-ish.”

“Thank fuck. That means it’s through and through. Unfortunately for you, you won’t be getting to wear widow’s black just yet.”

She looks up, her face inches from mine, her dark eyes blazing with that beautiful, fierce fury I’ve become addicted to. “Don’t be a dick.”

“You’d look good in black, though. At least you’ll know it suits you.”

“Don’t be so damn morbid.” But I notice her shoulders drop slightly, the rigid panic leaving her posture, which was the entire point of the joke. “What do I do first?”

“There’s saline in the kit. In the plastic bottle. Flush both sides. It’s going to sting like an absolute bastard, so ignore whatever noises I make.”

She reaches into the black nylon trauma bag, pulling out the bottle and a stack of sterile pads. She doesn’t hesitate. She positions the nozzle over the entry wound on my front shoulder and squeezes.

The cold saline hits the raw, torn muscle, and my whole body instantly convulses. A deep growl tears out of the back of my throat, my left hand fisting into the leather upholstery so hard the stitching groans. My teeth grind together until my jaw aches, the searing agony roaring through my nervous system.

“Eyes on me, Yakov,” Raya barks, her voice commanding. She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she places her left hand flat against my sternum, holding my writhing body steady against the seat. “Look at me. Don’t pass out on me, you idiot.”