Page 79 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"Dislocated shoulder," the doctor announces, sitting back on his heels. "Several deep cuts and extensive bruising, but nothing appears to be broken. You're very lucky, Pakhan. That bookcase could have killed you."

"How lucky," Samuil mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm despite the obvious pain. "Can you fix it or are you just going to keep telling me how lucky I am?"

The doctor's mouth twitches with amusement. He opens his medical bag and pulls out supplies, laying them out on the floor with methodical precision. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages, and a small vial of clear liquid that I assume is some kind of painkiller. He fills a syringe with steady hands, tapping it twice to remove air bubbles.

"This will help with the pain," he says, injecting the medication into Samuil's good arm. "But I need to reset the shoulder, and that's going to hurt regardless."

I move to stand, thinking I should give them space, but Samuil's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is tight, almost painful, but I don't pull away. His dark eyes meet mine. He doesn't say anything, doesn't ask me to stay, but the message is clear enough. It's not himself he's worried about. He's concerned about me and doesn't want me out of his sight.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him quietly, settling back down beside him. I take his hand in both of mine, holding on as tightly as he's holding me.

The doctor positions himself carefully, one hand on Samuil's shoulder blade and the other gripping his upper arm. He counts to three, and on three he pulls and rotates in one smooth motion. The sound of the joint popping back into place makes my stomach turn. Samuil's entire body goes rigid, his hand crushing mine as he bites back what I'm sure would have been a very creative string of curses. Sweat runs down his face, mixing with the blood from the cut on his forehead.

"Done," the doctor says, releasing his hold. "The worst is over."

He spends the next twenty minutes cleaning and bandaging the cuts on Samuil's back and head. Some of them are deep enough to require butterfly stitches. I watch every movement, unable to look away even though the sight of so much blood makes me feel faintly sick. Samuil never makes another sound, his jaw locked tight and his breathing carefully controlled. His hand stays wrapped around mine the entire time.

When the doctor finally finishes, he sits back and wipes his hands on a clean cloth. He pulls out a prescription pad and scribbles something quickly, tearing off the page and handing it to one of the guards. Instructions for pain medication and antibiotics, probably. He turns back to Samuil with a stern expression that suggests he's about to deliver orders he knows won't be followed.

"You need to rest for at least forty-eight hours," he says firmly. "No strenuous activity. Keep the shoulder immobilized as much as possible. If you experience increased pain, numbness, or tingling in your arm, call me immediately."

"Understood." Samuil's tone suggests he has no intention of following any of those instructions.

The doctor sighs, clearly recognizing a losing battle when he sees one. He packs up his supplies and stands, nodding respectfully to both of us before one of the guards escorts him out. The library feels too quiet once he's gone, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the soft rustle of pages from the scattered books.

Samuil finally releases my hand and pushes himself to his feet with visible effort. He sways slightly, catching himself against the back of a nearby chair. I stand quickly, ready to steady him if needed, but he waves me off with his good hand. His shirt hangs in tatters, revealing the white bandages stark against his tanned skin.

"Well," he says, his voice dry despite the pain I know he must be feeling. "That's one way to get out of finishing a conversation about family history."

The comment is so unexpected, so perfectly timed, that I feel the tight knot of fear in my chest finally start to loosen. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up before I can stop it.

"You're an idiot," I tell him, but there's no heat in the words. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't." He meets my eyes, and something passes between us that doesn't need words. "You're safe. That's what matters."

After all the excitement, we all retire for the evening. I fuss over Samuil, helping him get out of his tattered clothes, and then I curl up next to his uninjured side and we both fall asleep, exhausted.

The next morning, I wake to find Samuil's side of the bed empty and cold. Panic flares briefly before I remember he's alive, just injured. I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and go to his study where I can faintly hear voices coming from inside. He's already dressed in a fresh suit, his left arm held carefully against his body but otherwise looking whole and healthy. Gregory stands beside the desk, reviewing what looks like security reports.

"You're supposed to be resting," I say from the doorway, unable to keep the frustration out of my voice.

Samuil glances up, his expression unreadable. "I'm fine. We have work to do."

"The physician said forty-eight hours."

"The physician doesn't run my organization." He turns back to Gregory, effectively dismissing my concern. "I want every room in this mansion inspected. Every bookcase, chandelier, and every piece of furniture that could potentially cause harm. Check the structural integrity of everything."

Gregory nods, making notes on his tablet. "You think the bookcase was deliberate?"

"I think it's a hell of a coincidence that a piece of furniture that's stood for generations suddenly decides to collapse the exact moment my wife is standing beneath it." Samuil's voice is cold, controlled, but I can hear the anger simmering beneath. "I want to know if someone tampered with it."

The words send ice through my veins. I'd been trying not to think about that possibility, trying to convince myself it was just an accident. But hearing Samuil say it out loud makes it real. Someone might have tried to kill me. Or him. Or both of us.

By mid-morning, I can't stand the tension anymore. I need to talk to someone who might understand what's happening. I find my father in his suite, sitting in an armchair by the window with a book in his lap. He looks up when I enter, his expression softening with concern.

"Ana. Come sit." He gestures to the chair across from him. "How's Samuil?"

I sink into the chair, suddenly exhausted despite having done nothing all morning. "He's being stubborn and insists on working," I grumble with irritation.