Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
My father nods, but I think he’d give Markov—or whoever he is—anything right now.
“Release her, Markov, and our families can form an alliance.”
Markov stares and seems to think this over.“We’re in agreement, then. We’ll honor a time-honored tradition that brings families together. Give me your daughter, Ivanov.”
My father casts a knowing glance between Markov and me. His eyes linger on my tear-streaked face. Silence engulfs the room, tension thickening the air with old grievances.
“My daughter?”
“Give her to me. Give me Vera, and we will end the feud between our families.”
I stare, disbelieving.
“Take her,” he says, his voice resolute. My blood turns to ice. “If this is what it takes to end our families’ feud, to prevent further loss, so be it.”
Mutterings from the Ivanovs’ corner swell like an impending storm. Disbelief and anger ripple through them, yet their leader raises a hand, commanding silence.
“No!” Irina struggles within Markov’s firm grip. “Petr, you promised me!”
“You betrayed me,” my father booms, stepping toward her. He reaches out, wrenching her from Markov’s hold. I flinch as he raises his hand to strike her, but she seizes her opportunity. With a swift knee to my father’s groin, she breaks free, reaching into her dress to draw a concealed gun.
“You will not hold me back!” she screams, her voice a mixture of fury and desperation. “After everything I did for you. After everything you’ve promised me!” She aims the gun and pulls the trigger. “You’re a lying cheat! How dare you!”
My father’s guards react instantly, weapons drawn, but it’s too late. A gunshot rings out.
“Father!” I scream. “No!”
But it’s too late. His body hits the floor and blood pours from him. Her bullet struck her target: straight between his eyes.
As Irina pivots, her gun now aimed at me, Markov acts. With no hesitation, he leaps in front of me, intercepting the bullet meant for me. His body slams into mine as we hit the floor together.
“Nooooo!” I cry out in horror.
Too late, one of the guards fires, striking Irina. She falls, her threat ending with a thud against the floor.
My medical training kicks in amid the chaos. Authority surges through me as I rise to my feet, facing the guards.
“You!” I command, pointing sharply. I’m taking no risks. “Make sure she’s secured immediately! My father is injured, and I am his daughter. Do what I say!”
My father is more than injured. Even I know that.
But I can save Markov. I have to.
This is my moment. This is what I know. I’m trained to handle intense, high-stakes medical situations under pressure.
The guards snap to attention, hesitating only a moment before moving to comply with my commands. They quickly observe the still body of Irina, ensuring she poses no further threat, while others rush to my father’s side, checking for signs of life that I already fear are absent.
I kneel beside Markov, my hands trembling as I assess his wound. I blink back tears and push every thought aside. I have to focus on saving him.
I can do this.
Blood blooms across his shirt, a stark red against the white fabric. His eyes meet mine, filled with pain yet revealing so much strength. “It’s okay, Vera,” he whispers, his voice strained. “I’ll be fine. You are the one who has to remain safe. Now that Irina and your father no longer pose a threat, I’ll have to trust his guards. . .”
“Shhh,” I whisper. One of my tears drops to his shirt, a dark circle spreading alongside the blood.
Ignoring the tears that blur my vision, I press my hand firmly against his wound, trying to staunch the bleeding. Around us, the room is a flurry of activity—guards shouting, the distant sound of sirens approaching, the heavy footsteps of medical personnel arriving. Someone here at the hotel’s made some calls.
“Stay with me,” I whisper. “Let me see how badly you’re hurt.”
I tear open his shirt and assess the wound with a frown. I need to assess the wound—location, size, and type. Prevent the loss of blood.
Please be only a graze. . . please be only a graze. . .
“It looks like a flesh wound,” I whisper, frowning at the sight of his blood on my hands. I’m shaking, but stay calm. “Potential superficial muscle injury but we’ll only know with further testing. It hasn’t hit any major arteries, and you’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re a big guy—”
“Vera.” Markov holds my hand, blood making our grip slippery. “Go with your father. I’ll be taken into custody by the rest of his men. Even if my injury is minor, my life is forfeit for treason.”
I break out in a cold sweat. Markov isn’t…Markov. What does that mean for us? What does that mean for him?
His life is forfeit, yet…he saved my life.
It’s then that I realize we’re surrounded by my father’s men, EMTs putting my father and Irina on stretchers. I watch in shock as they pull a sheet over her body.