Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
"I’m not asleep," I lie, even though I think I was almost dreaming. I pry my eyelids open and find us at a small residence.
This is nothing like what I expected. I thought he’d bring me to some type of office, but instead, this is a little house with wooden clapboard siding and a faded sign.
"Wow. Um, this is it?"
He frowns at the age-worn building, eyes narrowed. "I suppose so.”
“Do you trust your uncle?”
He shakes his head. “That’s a complicated question.” I don’t push. “Hold my hand when we go in. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your eyes in front of you.”
What?
I want to ask him why he’s so afraid. Even though I think I already know, I want to hear it from him. For someone like him, just taking me to the doctor means he’s already given me what I want—and let the doctor take the upper hand.
What's it like to need to control things so tightly? What will it take to make him crack? I feel as if I've already gotten a taste of it. He looks from left to right as though waiting for someone to leap at us from the shadows. What is he hiding? Or is he really just fearful in general?
Not surprisingly, we manage the short distance from the car to the entryway without being bombed by a terrorist, attacked by a madman, or swept away in a hurricane. I am clumsy on my crutches, but he is sturdy by my side.
Inside, it's clean and vacant, a sterile waiting room with a few chairs and end tables strewn with glossy magazines. It’s so normal, so natural, it feels a little odd to see after the total isolation of the past few days. "Huh. No other patients?”
“Obviously,” he says, scowl in place. “I won’t take unnecessary risks.”
Oooh. Right. “So you made sure nobody else came here?" I ask him, but the wide-eyed look of the receptionist sitting at the desk is answer enough for me. She stares at him as if he’s a ticking time bomb. "We have an appointment with the doctor," he grunts.
“I-I know. Yes, sir.”
My cheeks flame at the wicked hint of a smile he gives me. Those words will never have the same effect again. I turn away, cheeks flushed.
The assistant grabs a clipboard, fumbles awkwardly with it, and then drops it on her desk with a loud clatter. She jumps, her face flushing as she scrambles to pick it up again. Her hand shakes so much she can barely hold on. Rafail blows out a breath, grabs the clipboard from her, and thrusts it into my hands along with a pen.
I look at the sheet in front of me and scan the questions. A lump rises in my throat when I realize I can't answer half of these questions. Date of birth? No idea. Medical history? I haven't a clue. Blood type?
Beats me.
I turn away. The page in front of me blurs, my eyes filling with tears of frustration, when Rafail pulls it away from me and tosses the clipboard back on her desk.
"This is unnecessary. Open the fucking door, and let me see the doctor. He can shove this paperwork up his ass."
One thing’s abundantly clear to me: Rafail didn’t get where he was by being charming.
"Of course, Mr. Kopolov," the assistant says. She’s stunning, dressed in a tight pencil skirt and V-neck blouse that shows every curve. Her calves look amazing in those heels, but he doesn't even look at her. He turns his head and peers in the other direction, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
"Mr. and Mrs. Kopolov.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard both of us addressed like that. Did they announce us that way when we were married?
A young doctor in his mid-thirties stands in the doorway. Tanned skin and short hair—he looks as if he just got home from a trip to the Caribbean. "I'm so sorry for the confusion," he says, gesturing for us to come into the office. "Please, come in. If I’d known it was you making an appointment, sir, I’d have come to your house.”
Oh Jesus. All this compromise from my unyielding husband for nothing.
"Next time, you will," Rafail growls.
I place a hand on his arm to calm him. Maybe more sex will help.
Jesus, did I really just consider that?
“Mr. Kopolov, I have your family files here.”
Rafail goes rigid. “Who sent those?”
The doctor frowns, looking over them. “No one. These are public record.” He’s quickly reading through things. “Ah, I remember this story. You became legal guardian to your siblings when you were barely an adult yourself.” Nodding, he flips through. “There were three brothers and a sister. You—”
“Strike that.” Rafail cuts his eyes to the doctor, who pauses mid-sentence and stares at him. I stare too. Three brothers and a sister?