Chapter 172 174

Chapter 172 174
“That’s why I did it,” I say sarcastically. “So you’d have less work.”

He grins. “I appreciate that. You’re always looking out for me, boss.”

I roll my eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to make sure you survived without me having to bail you out of trouble like always.” He nudges me in the ribs and sighs. “Seriously, though, I’m glad you both are okay. The house was fucking wrecked. I found Niles locked in a closet. If you hadn’t already killed Francia, I think he would have.”

“Is he okay?”

“The first thing he did when he got out was find a ladder and start patching bullet holes. It should be back to normal by the time you get home tonight.”

“If we get home tonight. Cora’s father is still in surgery.”

Yasha winces. “Is he going to make it?”

“I think so. I hope so.” I run a hand over my head. “Cora is tough. She can get through anything… but she’s been through enough. She needs this.”

Yasha gently pushes me towards the doors. “You should go be with her then. I’ll make sure Mommy Dearest stays gone.”

“She’ll stay gone. I think I scared her thoroughly enough. You should get some rest. Or go find your woman.”

Yasha smiles, but still wrinkles his forehead like he’s confused. “Who?”

“God. When are you two going to give up this stupid game? Everyone knows you’re fucking.”

“Obviously, I fuck. I mean, look at me, Ivan. Of course I fuck.”

I groan. “It’s been a long night. Go find Jorden and let her deal with you.”

“Jorden? Huh, there’s an idea,” he says, still grinning from ear to ear. “I never thought of her before, but maybe I will go see her. Since you’re letting me off for the night and she is Cora’s friend and all. I’ll go check on her and make sure she’s safe. Because I’m a very nice guy.”

Yasha is still talking to himself, his voice fading out, when I walk back through the automatic doors and into the hospital.

I turn every corner expecting someone else to show up. Hell, after the night we just had, maybe my father will make his final stand with whatever old guard lieutenants he could scrounge up. Maybe I’ll have to kill him to cement my place as pakhan of the Pushkin Bratva.

But no one shows up. I walk the quiet halls back to the waiting room.

It’s empty.

Panic grips me for a single second before a young nurse clears her throat behind me. I whip around, and the girl jolts. “Sorry, I—Your wife told me to tell you that she’s in Room 408.”

“Is Marcus St. Clair out of surgery?”

She nods. “I just wheeled him into the recovery room.”

“What’s his prognosis?”

She gives me a nervous shake of her head. “I’m sorry. That’s something you’d have to talk about with the doctor. I wasn’t in the operating room and I haven’t seen his charts. But you’re welcome to go in and see him for yourself.”

I want Marcus to pull through for Cora. So some piece of her old life—the life she lost—can come back to her. She deserves it.

As I approach Room 408, I hear voices. Laughter.

I knock on the door and find Cora standing next to her father’s hospital bed, smiling wider than I’ve seen in a long time.

She turns her smile to me and almost knocks me back on my ass. She’s so fucking beautiful.

“Oh, here he is!” Cora says. “Ivan is the one who called the ambulance and got you into surgery so fast.”

Marcus is still pale, but he’s cleaned-up and conscious. “You look a lot better than the last time I saw you,” I remark.

He turns to me slowly, his eyes heavy. “You saved my life.”

“Yeah, well, you bought enough time for me to get to the house and save Cora’s life. For that, I owe you mine. This was the least I could do.”

Cora fluffs his pillows and holds a cup of water to his lips so he can drink. She talks to him about nothing for half an hour until he drifts to sleep. Even when he’s snoring gently, though, Cora stands by his bedside, looking down at him.

“You should sit down,” I tell her. “You need to rest, too.”

She nods, but doesn’t budge. “I just can’t believe he made it.”

I grab her by the waist and pull her into my lap. “Believe it. You made it, too.”

“I wasn’t sure I’d get to talk to him again. I thought it was all over.”

“It’s not,” I whisper. “You can both talk tomorrow. So for now, rest.”

She curls against my chest. “Tomorrow. I like the sound of that.”

I hold her even tighter. “You have a lifetime of tomorrows, Cora.”

Her cheek curves as she smiles. “You’ll be there, too?”

I kiss her forehead. “Until the very end.”

68

CORA

TWO MONTHS LATER

I’m trembling so hard I can’t even scratch my face without almost poking an eye out.

“Stop doing that!” Jordan grabs my hands and pins them to my sides. “You’ll ruin your makeup.”

“My makeup is already ruined.”

I’ve been crying on and off all morning.

When I unzipped the garment bag that held my dress: tears.

When Jorden and Anya came out in their bridesmaids dresses: tears.

When I asked for a latte and Yasha brought me decaf because “you do not need the extra energy. You’re about to buzz out of your skin”: tears.

In my defense, I was so nervous last night that I couldn’t sleep. I’m exhausted and anxious and—

“I don’t know if I can do this.” It’s the first time I’ve let myself say the words out loud.

Jorden frowns but, with her smokey eyeshadow and bronzer, it looks like she’s posing for a magazine. “Can’t do what? Scratch your eye?”

“Get married!” I blurt. I spin away from her and immediately trip on the train of my dress. It takes me a second to extricate my heel from the lace and stand tall again.

When I do, Jorden is gaping at me. I wonder what lipstick she’s wearing. It’s flawless. “You don’t want to marry Ivan?”

“What? Yes! I mean—No. Er, I do want to marry him. Of course I do! I love him.”

She presses a hand to her chest. “Oh, thank God. I would not want to be the person who had to deliver that news to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Felonious.”

“I want to marry him; I just don’t know if I can. I mean, I can’t walk in this dress. It’s only been an hour and I’ve already smudged my lipstick, cracked a nail, and lost a pin in my hair. I’m just not made for all of this.” I pick up the layers of intricately embroidered lace that cinch around my waist and fall to the floor in delicate ripples. “I’m not a princess.”

“Uh, yeah, you are. You’re as close as most people are ever gonna get, anyway. Plus, you picked all of this—the dress, the hair, the makeup. Ivan told you he’d get married in the kitchen with Niles as officiant if you wanted.”

“Maybe I should have taken him up on that,” I mutter.

A small ceremony would’ve meant fewer witnesses when I inevitably faceplant in the aisle or recite my vows with lipstick on my teeth.