The awakening

Consciousness didn't return with clarity; it arrived as a series of jagged, cold intrusions.

I woke to a room that felt clinically excavated from ice. The air was saturated with the sterile, cloying scent of high-grade antiseptic and the relentless, low-frequency thrum of life-support machinery. My first instinct was a primal urge to gasp—to draw a breath that would anchor my spiraling equilibrium—but my lungs were no longer my own.

The violation was absolute. A thick, invasive presence was wedged down my trachea, a plastic serpent that triggered a gag reflex every time I tried to swallow. I attempted to cough, but the reflex slammed into the unyielding wall of the tubing, setting off a frantic, metallic alarm that cut through the silence like a blade.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound was high-pitched and pitiless, pulsing in perfect, terrifying synchronization with the erratic thudding in my chest. I tried to shift, to rise from the bed, but my limbs were leaden anchors, heavy with the weight of sedation and trauma. My vision remained a fractured mosaic of fluorescent whites and shifting, indistinct shadows.

I tried to speak, to demand an account of my captivity in this sterile purgatory, but the silence was forced upon me. I was acutely, viscerally aware of the air being driven into my chest—a rhythmic, mechanical shove that felt like a foreign hand inside my ribcage.

Hiss. Click. Whoosh.

The ventilator was the master of my breath. I was merely a passenger in my own body.

Panic began to claw at the fringes of my mind. I reached up, my fingers trembling and disconnected, clawing for the intrusion in my throat. My hand hadn't traveled halfway before a firm, gloved hand intercepted my wrist, pinning it to the bedrail with a strength that was gentle but absolute.

"Don't," a voice commanded. It was soft, clinical, yet carried the weight of seasoned authority. "You will only succeed in injuring yourself, Marie."

I blinked, struggling to focus on the silhouette looming over me. The shadows resolved into a face behind a surgical mask and shield, eyes sharp with a weary intelligence. He lowered the mask, revealing a face deeply etched by the pressures of his craft.

"I am Dr. Arisov," he said, his voice a steadying anchor in the fog. "Chief cardiothoracic surgeon. You have been sedated for three and a half days. The ventilator is breathing for you because your lungs sustained severe trauma; they require rest to heal. If you fight the machine, it will fight you back. Do you understand?"

I couldn't nod. I could only stare, my pupils dilated with a cold, silent terror, as the machine continued to dictate the pace of my existence. I blinked twice.

He consulted a tablet, his fingers moving with practiced, clinical efficiency. "You have a small army in the waiting room, Marie. Bob hasn't left the hallway in thirty-six hours. Santiago and Boris are pacing like caged predators. They are waiting for me to confirm that you have woken up."

The names sparked a flicker of lucidity. My annoying but favorite brother was here. Boris was here. Santi was here. The world outside this frozen room was still turning, and I was the one holding the weight of it.

"I’m going to check your vitals again," Arisov said, his tone shifting to the professional distance of a surgeon. "Just breathe. The more you relax, the sooner we can discuss extubation. For now, you are safe."

Safe was a relative concept in my world. The doctor took his time checking my vitals but was absolutely thorough. As the doctor retreated, the monitors settled into a more human rhythm. I was alive, and I was not alone.

A moment later, the door slid open to admit Bob. He looked as though he had aged a decade since he left the suite at the Metropol Hotel—his clothes were rumpled, his eyes bloodshot with a profound exhaustion. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands clenching the rail until his knuckles turned white.

"Marie," he whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of the silence. He took a tentative step closer, looking at the ventilator with a mixture of revulsion and desperate gratitude. "Jesus, Marie. For a moment, we thought the light had gone out. Just stay still. Arisov says you're doing well. Keep fighting. We're not leaving your side."

He lingered for a heartbeat, his hand hovering over mine before he turned and fled the room, unable to witness the mechanical life-support for a second longer.

When Bob retreated, Santi took his place. He moved with a predatory stillness that even the hospital gown couldn't diminish. He stood by the monitors, reading the data as if searching for a weakness.

"The Volkovs are clear, Marie," Santiago said, his voice a low, raspy rumble that seemed to vibrate in the sterile air. "They crossed several borders sixteen to twenty-four hours ago. No tails, no fallout." He looked back at me, his jaw set like stone. He gave a single, sharp nod—a silent contract fulfilled. "You did your hardest job of getting two innocents out. Now do your other hard job; rest. Wake up properly so I can stop babysitting these two buffoons in the hallway."

Finally, the door opened for Boris. He didn't hover by the entrance. He moved directly to the bedside, his shadow falling over me like a heavy, protective shroud. He looked down at the tubes and the wires, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury directed at the unseen forces that had brought me here.

"This is not how our story was supposed to continue," Boris said, his voice dangerously quiet, vibrating with a dark promise. He reached out, his hand hovering near mine before he withdrew it, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile remains of my composure. "But you are alive. That is the only fact that matters. The people who did this to you believe they won because you are in this bed." He leaned down, his eyes burning with a cold fire. "They are mistaken. Rest, Marie. When you are ready, we will get out of here."

One by one, they had seen me. One by one, I had been reminded of the debt I owed to my own survival.

After the men were ushered back into the hallway, Dr. Arisov returned. He pulled a stool closer, his expression shifting into something grim and unvarnished.

"I imagine you want the truth," he began. "You were shot, Your Imperial Highness. The ballistics were rather specific. You were targeted by an operative with Kremlin ties. The weapon was an antique—a piece from the era dating the execution of your relatives in 1918. A symbolic execution attempt, though the damage was modern enough. The round tore through your chest, nicking your heart and destroyed part of your left lung."

He let the silence hang for a moment. "Your heart has been repaired; it is resilient. However, we were forced to remove a small portion of your lung, which is why the ventilator remains. Boris told us that you suffer from a chronic lung disorder, so we decided that the ventilator will help. But you are compensating well. If your trajectory remains positive over the next few hours, I will authorize extubation. We will see if you can carry your own weight again."

He stood to leave, adjusting the flow of my IV. "As for the man who pulled the trigger, he worked for the Kremlin and is no longer a concern. My understanding is that the government has already taken care of the matter."

He turned toward the door, but the words hit me with the force of a second strike. Taken care of. The clinical euphemism for a permanent silencing. If they had liquidated their own operative to bury the lead, I was a loose end in a very long, very bloody rope. I was a target that had been missed, and the Kremlin did not tolerate failure. They were going to get me in there as soon as they could for a DNA test.

The monitor above my head began to scream.

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!

My heart rate surged, the numbers climbing into a frantic, bright red. I felt the ventilator struggle against the sudden tension in my throat as I lapsed into a mechanical hyperventilation. I was drowning in a sea of oxygen. The realization that I was trapped, immobilized in this bed while the wolves were still at the door, sent me into a blind, suffocating panic.

"Marie! Look at me!" Arisov shouted, spinning back. He slammed his hand against the emergency console, triggering a cascade of alarms. "She’s tachycardic! I need a crash cart, now!"

Within seconds, I heard footsteps thundering. I stared at the ceiling, my chest heaving against the machine's relentless rhythm, convinced that the next shadow to cross the threshold wouldn't be a healer, but a finisher. The hospital gown was ripped from my body, leaving me naked. I heard someone scream: “Clear!” before I passed out.

Sometime later, Dr. Arisov came into the room with a syringe. I wanted to tell him not to, but I felt a pinch in my IV line, and almost instantly, the world began to dissolve. The sharp edges of the room softened into grey, the screaming monitors faded into a dull, distant hum, and the panic was swallowed by a heavy, velvet darkness.

When I woke again, the room was shrouded in the muted orange glow of late afternoon. The first thing I noticed was the silence—the rhythmic hiss of the machine was gone. The second was the raw, burning agony in my throat. Every swallow felt like I was downing shards of glass.

I reached out with a hand that felt disconnected from my nervous system, my fingers fumbling until they closed around the plastic remote. I pressed the 'call' button.

It wasn't a nurse who answered. It was Dr. Arisov. He looked as though he had aged several more years in the interval, but his eyes held a flicker of relief.

"You're awake," he said, moving to the bedside. "And you're breathing on your own. Take it slow, Marie. Your throat will be an agonizing mess for a while."

I tried to form a word, but my voice was a broken, guttural rasp that died before it reached the air. "They..."

"Do not attempt to speak yet," he cautioned, his eyes fixed on the oxygen saturation levels. "Just breathe. The world isn't going anywhere."

I looked at him, the urgency of my situation overriding the physical pain. I signaled toward the bedside table with a trembling hand, miming the motion of writing. Arisov understood immediately. He pulled a silver pen from his pocket and produced a thick stack of clinical paper from a drawer, setting them on my lap.

My hand shook as I pressed the pen to the paper. The ink bled slightly as I forced out the question that was currently suffocating me.

Am I in the Kremlin?

I turned the page toward him. Arisov’s expression didn’t change, but he took a deep breath, his hands folding over his chest.

"Yes," he replied, his voice a low, steady whisper. "You are in the central infirmary. However, you are in a secured wing. I have personally vetted every individual permitted on this floor. These are my trusted personal staff—people who owe their careers to me, not the state. I have issued direct orders: no one employed or stationed by the Kremlin, military or otherwise, is to set foot on this floor. To them, this wing is a black site. You are as safe as I can possibly make you."

I looked at the door, then back at him. Even with his assurances, the walls felt like they were closing in. I began to write again, my hand steadier now that the adrenaline was fading into a cold, practical assessment of my own body.

Bring Boris back, I wrote. Underneath that, I paused, the pen hovering over the paper. Is it safe for me to have sex?

I handed the paper to Arisov. He took it, his eyes scanning the lines. He didn't blink or show a hint of professional discomfort; he had seen too much blood and bone to be rattled by the primal requirements of his patients.

"I will send Boris in shortly," he said, setting the paper aside. He met my gaze with a blunt, clinical honesty. "As for your second question... your heart is stable, but your lung capacity is severely diminished. Physical exertion of will be dangerous for a while. You risk tearing the sutures in your chest or, worse, triggering another cardiac collapse. For now, Your Imperial Highness, your focus must be on sitting up, then walking. Anything more intimate is off the table until I say otherwise. Understood?"

I scrawled one last line before he could leave.

Can he at least eat my pussy?

Arisov stared at the page for a silent heartbeat. Then, a sharp, genuine laugh erupted from him—the first bit of humanity I’d seen in the room. He shook his head, the exhaustion in his face giving way to a brief, amused respect.

"Yes, Marie," he chuckled, tucking the pen back into his pocket. "He can manage that without killing you. Just stay on your back."

He turned and left the room. A few moments later, the heavy door clicked open. Boris stepped back inside, the door locking behind him. He looked at the stack of paper on my lap, then at the look in my eyes, and I could see the cold fury in his expression begin to flicker with something else. His eyes were full of passion.