The Doctor Wife: A Bratva possession

Elena's POV 

My hands are shaking. Not because I’m scared—just completely drained. Sixteen straight hours of stitching people back together, giving bad news, pretending I’m not falling apart inside. I yank off my scrubs in the hospital parking lot, throw on a hoodie, and sink into my beat-up Honda like I might never get back out.

“Please don’t die tonight,” I mutter as I turn the key.

It sputters, coughs… then starts. Barely.

The city’s quiet in that strange, almost eerie way it gets after midnight. Too still. My eyes burn from the strain, and everything goes a little hazy. I blink until the road sharpens again.

Just five more minutes. Then I'll get a hot shower, maybe some vodka, and if I’m lucky—sleep that doesn’t feel like drowning.

But then I see a black SUV on the shoulder. There's no headlights. The driver's door is wide open. The whole thing is riddled with bullet holes.

No. Not tonight. Keep driving. Don’t stop. You’ve done enough. You don’t need this.

And still—I’m pulling over.

“Goddamn it.”

I swing the car door shut behind me and jog toward the SUV, telling myself I’ll just check it out, call it in if I have to, and be on my way. But the second I see the blood on the pavement, that hope dies fast. There’s a trail leading around the back, thick and dark, already drying at the edges.

I follow it, heart pounding harder the closer I get.

A man's there, half-slumped beside the rear tire. He's a big guy. Long legs, broad chest, tattoos crawling up his neck and vanishing beneath a shirt soaked through with blood. One arm is limp, the other twitching slightly like he’s dreaming of a fight he isn’t finished with.

My brain clicks into ER mode before I can even think.

Femoral artery, probably. That kind of blood loss? He’s got minutes, if that.

I crouch beside him and press two fingers to his neck, there's a weak pulse but it still there.

“Hey,” I say, voice low but firm, like I’m already willing him to stay with me. “Don’t die on me. Not after the day I’ve had.”

No response, So I rip off my hoodie and shove it hard against the wound in his thigh, using my weight to keep pressure on it. Blood leaks out around my fingers anyway. Not good. I pull off my belt and wrap it high around his leg, yanking it tight. It’s not a proper tourniquet, but it’s something. My hands are slick, shaking again, but I manage to grab a hair tie off my wrist and use it to double up the tension.

“Come on,” I mutter, leaning over him. “You’re not dying in front of me. I don’t have the patience for that tonight.”

His body jerks. His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused,but before I can say a word, his hand shoots up and grabs my throat, slamming me onto my back like I weigh nothing.

“Jesus—” I choke, trying to pry his hand off.

His grip is like iron, but his eyes are searching mine, trying to place me.

“You’re… not one of them,” he mutters, voice raw, barely there.

“No shit,” I gasp, still clawing at his wrist.

After a second, he blinks again like something clears in his head, and his hand drops. He slumps back against the tire, breathing shallow, eyelids fluttering.

I suck in a shaky breath and sit up, coughing.

That’s when I hear a low hum of an engine turning the corner. Headlights sweeping across the street.

Another car.

“Shit,” I whisper, scrambling to my feet. I grab under his arms. “Come on. We’re not doing this out in the open.”

He’s heavy—deadweight—but adrenaline’s a hell of a drug. I drag him, step by step, behind a nearby dumpster just as the headlights wash over us. I duck down and press my hand over his mouth without thinking, praying we’re not visible.

Doors slam. Voices yell, sharp and fast—Russian, maybe.

Three men move around the SUV, weapons drawn, searching.

He suddenly shifts under me, like something in him has rebooted.

He’s still bleeding, still pale, but his body moves differently now—colder, more controlled, like he’s already calculated what comes next.

“Stay down,” he whispers, voice steady this time.

Before I can stop him, he’s gone.

I lean out just far enough to see him walking into the open like he’s not leaking blood by the second. He doesn’t flinch as the gunmen shout and fan out across the alley, weapons raised. It’s like he doesn’t even hear them.

He doesn’t duck or even run, Just lifts his arm and fires.

Three shots, fast and controlled. All three men drop where they stand.

I slap a hand over my mouth, heart slamming against my ribs as silence crashes over the alley like a wave. He stands there for another second, perfectly still, before he finally turns his head toward me.

I duck back behind the dumpster, scrambling to make sense of what I just saw. No way he should be standing, let alone shooting. His blood is still on my hands.

Footsteps drag closer, then he’s back in front of me, limping slightly, breathing heavier than before but still looking like he’s the one in control.

“What the hell was that?” I whisper, still crouched low.

He doesn't answer right away. Just sinks down beside me, resting his back against the cold metal, jaw tight.

“You could’ve stayed down,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Let them pass. You’re hurt.”

“They weren’t going to pass,” he mutters, eyes on the alley entrance. “They were going to check everything. Including back here.”

“And you just—what? Handled it?”

His head tilts like that question barely deserves a response.

I glance at the bodies, then at him. “Who are you?”

To Be Continued...