Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 45957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 230(@200wpm)___ 184(@250wpm)___ 153(@300wpm)
I moved forward without a word, shooting both nurses a cold look when they didn’t move out of my way fast enough. Adrian mumbled something I couldn’t even begin to make out with how slurred his speech was, his eyes barely opening to slits when I began to peel his jacket off, but then, he was out again, oblivious to what was going on around him.
Once his clothes were off and tossed to the floor, Dr. Lebedev helped me get him covered up. His toes, which we’d already checked, were already beginning to regain their right color, which helped me relax a bit.
He was going to pull through this. He fucking had to. I refused to entertain any other possibility.
“I heard something about more blankets,” Mark said, appearing in the doorway, his arms loaded down with comforters. Grateful for him taking initiative, I strode toward him as the nurses worked on hooking up Adrian up to a blood pressure monitor and a blood-oxygen sensor. “How is he?”
I took some of the comforters from him and strode back to the bed. “He’s going to pull through,” I told him since I refused to believe any-fucking-thing else. His survival was the only option. “Shouldn’t lose any fingers or toes. But I imagine he’ll feel like shit for a few days. He’s going to need some downtime to recover.”
Mark began helping me drape the comforters over Adrian’s still body. “Should we let James know about his condition?”
I grunted. I did not feel like dealing with James. He was going to be pissed that not only had we crashed but that I’d still almost gotten Adrian killed. He might even come get Adrian himself and take him home. And that wasn’t an option.
I finally had Adrian within my grasp. I just needed some time to break him. I couldn’t do that if James came for him. And if he did, I couldn’t realistically stop him without causing a fucking war neither of us needed, especially when we might have a common enemy. Because I had no fucking doubt that my pilot had been killed, which caused us to crash in the middle of fucking nowhere where our survival odds were slim to none.
“I will… eventually,” I said because I didn’t feel like dealing with it right then. I wanted Adrian conscious and lucid first so he could assure James himself that he was alive and on the mend. James and I had a good working relationship, but when it came to family—especially family like Adrian, who he’d known basically his entire life—he wouldn’t be all that amicable. Or pleasant.
I stood back, crossing my arms over my chest as I watched the female nurse insert a needle into Adrian’s inner elbow before connecting it to the saline bag. When they finally slipped from the room, Dr. Lebedev turned his attention back to me. “I would like to do an assessment on you—”
“No,” I growled. “Quite frankly, doctor, I’m tired, and I just want to rest. I feel fine, and all of my body parts seem to be in working order. If something changes, I will call you.”
He sighed but nodded, knowing better than to argue with me. “Then please at least make sure you eat something and drink plenty of fluids.”
“Will do,” I assured him. I had no doubt in my mind Mark would push the issue anyway until I agreed to let him do whatever he wanted just so he’d leave me alone.
The doc inclined his head to me. “I will be back soon to check on Mr. Miller.” With that, he left the room, pulling the door somewhat closed to where just a crack remained.
“What do you want to eat?” Mark asked me. I opened my mouth to tell him I didn’t feel like eating anything at the moment because honestly, all I wanted to do was sit beside Adrian’s bed and protect him while he couldn’t protect himself. But I also wanted to work on finding out why the fuck my jet had crashed. Mark held up a hand, shutting me up. I scowled at him. “Boss, you need to eat.”
I knew he was going to fucking argue with me.
My scowl deepened. “I sign your paychecks,” I coldly reminded him.
He arched a brow at me. “And you can’t sign them if you’re bedridden and ill. Food, boss.”
Goddamn him.
“Have someone make me a bowl of solyanka,” I finally said. Solyanka was a common soup in Russia and one my father used to make for me all the time when I was ill. Now, even after his death, it was still my go-to soup. “But watch them while they make it, Mark. Something is amiss, and I will not be taken out by someone poisoning my fucking food.”
“Noted,” he said, inclining his head to me respectfully before leaving the room, shutting the door completely behind him.