Page 145 of Secret Heir

“Maksim.” Dr. Petrov is suddenly there, kneeling beside us. His weathered face is calm. “Let me see.”

“Aria first,” I manage, hissing as the pain intensifies. “Check her first.”

“I’m fine!” Aria shouts, her eyes wild. “I’m not the one bleeding! Check him!”

Dr. Petrov’s hands are already on my shoulder, pulling aside my ruined shirt. His fingers probe the wound with practiced efficiency, and I bite down on a groan.

“Entry and exit wound,” he says calmly. “It went straight through the deltoid muscle.” He shakes his head and clucks his tongue. “It’s the same shoulder as the car bomb injuries—you’ve thoroughly destroyed this one, Maksim.”

“Will he be okay?” Aria’s voice is small and frightened.

“He’ll live. The bullet missed the subclavian artery by less than an inch. He’s very lucky.” Dr. Petrov is already pulling supplies from his medical bag. “But this will hurt. I need to clean and pack the wound, then stitch both entry and exit.” He gives me an apologetic smile. “There’s no anesthesia available here.”

“Do it,” I say through gritted teeth.

Aria throws me a concerned look. “Maksim—” she starts.

“I’m fine. Do it.”

Famous last words. The next ten minutes are agony. Dr. Petrov works quickly but thoroughly. He cleans the wound with antiseptic that burns like liquid fire and packs it with gauze to stop the bleeding. Every touch sends shockwaves of pain through my entire left side and I grind my teeth, trying to prevent myself from crying out

I focus on Aria’s face. Her dark eyes are wet with tears and she’s holding my right hand so tightly her knuckles are white.

“I’m sorry,” I grit out. “For—holy fuck, ouch—scaring you.”

“I am so mad at you,” Aria says as she smooths my sweat-soaked hair back. “You truly are a stupid, heroic idiot.”

“He was aiming for you and our baby.” My jaw clenches as Dr. Petrov starts the first stitch. “I’d take a thousand bullets before I let that happen.”

“So cheesy.” She brings my hand to her lips and kisses my knuckles.

Dr. Petrov finishes the stitching in what feels like a million years. There’s fourteen on the entry wound and twelve on the exit. He wraps my shoulder in layers of bandages until I can barely move my left arm.

“You need to rest,” he says firmly, fixing me with a piercing glare. “No strenuous activity. No lifting. I would prefer bed rest for at least a week.”

Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m already pushing myself to my feet, ignoring Aria’s gasp. The room spins slightly, but I force it to steady. “Where’s Alexander?”

“Maksim!” Aria grabs my good arm. “You need to rest. Let Nikolai handle it all.”

“No,” I snap. “I need to see this through.”

Nikolai approaches. He looks slightly relieved to see me in one piece but he’s still seething. “He’s in the basement holding cell with four guards.”

Excellent. “I’m coming with you.”

Nikolai looks at me as if I’ve grown two heads. “What? Maksim, you were just shot⁠—”

“I’m. Coming. With. You.” I meet my brother’s eyes. “Am I understood?”

Nikolai studies me for a long moment, but then he nods, looking resigned. “Fine. But if you pass out, I’m having you dragged back to the compound.”

The basement is cold and damp, with concrete walls that sweat moisture. The holding cell is a reinforced cage in the corner. Alexander is inside, naked except for his underwear. They’ve clearly searched every inch of his body for hidden weapons or suicide devices. His burn-scarred left hand is visible now, the skin mottled and twisted.

He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, blood still dripping from his broken nose.

When we enter, his blue eyes track our movement. There’s no fear or remorse on his face.

“Nikolai.” His voice is hoarse from screaming. “Come to gloat?”