Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Her son’s, to be precise.
Maksim Ivanov is a walking red flag. He oozes confidence, and appears to have never been told no, but despite our differences, sparks ignite the moment we trade sultry glances.
The tension is white hot. I’ve never experienced such an immediate mutual connection. But as quickly as his mother was placed under my care, she is removed.
I assume her discharge will be the last I’ll hear from the mysterious family, so I struggle to hold back my delight when I bump into Maksim weeks later.
He’s darker than the man I’d met previously. More unhinged. But I am still drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Regretfully, he tries to make it seem as if the sparks are one sided.
He pushes me away as often than he draws me in, so you can picture my shock when I wake up after a night out drinking, wearing his ring.
I wanted to make him jealous.
I became his wife instead.
It could be mistaken as magical… until more than just the people I placed between us start showing up dead.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
As I exit the medical equipment sterilization room at Myasnikov Private Hospital, I pull off my hairnet to dispose of it and my biodegradable hospital apron into an uncontaminated product waste receptacle. I’m taken aback when I catch sight of my watch while forcing part of my “uniform” into the overflowing bin. It is a little after 3 a.m.
I hadn’t expected a position I accepted solely to pay student loans to take up so much time. Alas, with increased surgeries comes a demand for the sterilization of reusable medical equipment.
When accepted into medical school, I thought the most challenging part of the transition from college graduate to wannabe surgeon would be the long study sessions and textbooks that cost more than my first car.
I was poorly mistaken.
My tuition was more than I could afford. I barely get five hours of sleep a night, and although my studies have now switched to a somewhat paid position, I have to accept jobs on the side just to make ends meet.
By ends, I mean rent. My student loans are still in the red, and I’m drowning in personal credit card debt, but I have a roof over my head, and my family is taken care of, so I guess I shouldn’t complain.
With the surgical department shockingly quiet, I detour through the space that smells like the chemicals that soak through my gloves each night while sterilizing the equipment used by this very department.
The rancid scent is the only reason my grandmother hasn’t questioned my latest moonlighting position. As far as she is aware, I’m doing double shifts at the hospital every night.
I am—just not in the way she believes.
Although there’s no shame in admitting you collect and sterilize medical equipment, I don’t want anything to taint the gleam in her eyes when she tells her Bura teammates that I’m a soon-to-be world-renowned neurosurgeon.
I cringe when I cross theater three. There must have been a last-minute add-on to the surgical register outside the usual operating hours. The room is void of a soul, but used medical equipment is strewn from one side to the next.
My sluggish steps toward the mess slow when a voice from behind me says, “I’ll get it.”
Relief bombards me, but guilt quickly follows when I spin to face Alla.
She looks as exhausted as I feel.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind helping.”
She rolls her eyes before shooing off my offer with a wave of her hand. “I’m not the one scheduled to return here in a little over”—she checks her watch, which is still hidden by elbow-high gloves—“eight hours.” When she returns her eyes to my face, she shoves her hands in her pockets and peers at me motheringly. Alla is only four years my senior, but since that places her in her thirties instead of her twenties, she acts like we have a two-decade age gap. “You can’t keep running on fumes, Nikita. If you only dip the rag on the odd occasion, it will eventually run dry.”
“I’m fine. I’ve only got…” My words trail off when I recall I only started the third year of my surgical residency three months ago. I’ve got a long way to go—especially if I want to specialize in pediatric neurosurgery.
When I finalize my reply with a groan, Alla twists me to face the exit. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” She barges me out of the OR with so much gall I crash into the nurses’ station desk, bruising my hip. “And if you’re good, there could be a пончики or two waiting for you when you finish your shift tomorrow.”
Пончикис are Russia’s version of doughnuts.
Alla smiles when I ask, “Glaze or sugarcoated?”
“Why can’t we have both?”
I laugh. Her imitation of a famous commercial exposes that her English is as poor as my Russian was when I moved here nine years ago. I’m slowly learning the lingo, but I don’t see myself mastering in it anytime soon.
“I’ll bring кофе.”
She jerks up her chin in appreciation half a second before her nose screws up. “Just not that latest craze the hobnobs are raving about. I don’t care if it is the president’s rat. I will not drink its droppings.”
I’m still smiling about her disgust of the latest coffee craze in Russia while darting through the nurses’ station for the interns’ locker room at the back. My pace slows for the second time when I spot the surgical schedule slated to start at 6 a.m. My mother was Russian, so my given name is common around these parts, but my father is British, so my surname is rarely seen unless it is attached to a foreigner.
Hoffman shouldn’t be on a surgical schedule, much less in the box that announces the lead surgeon for a patient’s procedure.
“Ivanov,” I murmur while trying to recall where I’ve heard the name before.