Page 69 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

My skull fracture X-ray made me gasp. I don’t recall if I ever actually saw it. Kirill winces too, but comforts me, seeing what I went through. If he loved me, why can’t he trust me?

The only truth we know is that I went to see my father, and while I was with him, I fell, fractured my skull, and he wiped Kirill out of my life. Yes, I went there when he told me not to. That’s a regret I have to live with. But I’ve seen no evidence that I left under false pretenses or that I didn’t intend to come back. I had a three-week-old baby at home!

After an initial examination, they run tests to compare results with those from when I was here last. It’s less invasive than I expected. Lights in my eyes, strange questions, identifying and separating shapes and patterns.

“You’ve progressed very well,” the doctor says when it’s over, sounding pleased in a restrained, professional way. “Five years ago, your prognosis was uncertain. You were in the early stages of physical recovery, and despite receiving virtually no needle-moving treatment for nearly four years at Lakeshore, you made significant improvement at Marlowe. It’s one of the top centers in the country. You’ve jumped several percentiles.”

I nod, though the numbers on the screen mean very little to me. Progress feels abstract when so much of me is still missing.

“I’ve been getting flashes of movement, blurred images when I close my eyes sometimes,” I say, hesitant that they’re a sign of something wrong and I’ll have to live here again full-time. “I’m seeing things in my mind. Things I think happened before the accident.”

“You are?” Kirill jumps in before the doctor. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I bite my tongue and want to say, I didn’t think he’d care so long as I can look good on his arm, smile, and take care of our child. “It’s been a hectic few days.”

I don’t elaborate that hectic is from his abduction, a gun to my head, and being thrown into a cell handcuffed. It’s shocking that I didn’t regress and only had one episode.

“Memories do manage to break through,” the doctor says. “We told you years ago that it was possible. The brain finds its way back, sometimes. Not always in a straight line.”

Kirill’s hand tightens slightly around mine. “Is that a good sign?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies without hesitation. “A very good one.”

“And long term?” he presses.

I glance at him, knowing the subtext:

How long will she be like this? How long will I have to deal with her like this?

The doctor folds her hands together carefully. “With traumatic brain injuries, there’s no exact roadmap. Sandrine has progressed through many of the side effects. As far as the amnesia, some memories may return gradually. Some may never return at all.”

My stomach flips, hearing that. Again.

“But emotional recognition is important,” the doctor continues gently, looking at our linked hands. “Attachment, instinctive trust, physical familiarity. Those can survive even when conscious memory doesn’t. Stability helps. Familiar people help.”

I glance down when his hand tightens around mine. Instinctively, my fingers curl more around his, too. The warmth of his skin spreads through me. He feels possessive and protective all at once.

He notices, and when he brings his eyes back up, we stare for a moment. Why does he have to be so damn handsome? If I met him now, I would want him just as much.

Those striking blue eyes are impossible to ignore or be unaffected by. I feel that he’s both intoxicating and dangerous.

And our love is buried somewhere. It’s trying to break through.

A spark in the air makes me breathless. A flash comes back again. He’s kissing me. Maybe it’s from the video. No, this is different.

We’re not outdoors. We’re inside. In a bed. I’m naked. He’s naked. My heart beats wildly at the sight of what he wants in his eyes. He works his way down my body, suckling a breast, kissing my stomach. He keeps going until he reaches the heat between my legs. They open for him, and he licks my center. Slow and gentle. Carnal. Perfect.

Arousal thumps between my legs and I let out a small gasp. A flush of heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it. Am I reading his mind? Are these his memories or mine?

The machine I’m still hooked up to lets out a sudden, sharp beep from my quickening pulse.

I jerk slightly, my breath catching. Kirill keeps looking at me, and the slow curve of his mouth tells me he knows exactly what triggered it. Heat floods my face, and I look away, suddenly very aware that my body can betray me. It might have betrayed me initially. I had to know getting involved with the heir to the Chicago Bratva was a risk.

I wanted him anyway.

The doctor disconnects the machine. And the rest of the appointment is talk of outpatient therapy and medication.

“I don’t see a recent pelvic exam?” the doctor says, swiping through records on a tablet. “I see we never did one. Probably because your injuries were so new. Did you have one at Lakeshore or Marlowe?”