Warm My Bed, Brother-in-law Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The Vulture.

Read chapter 2 of Warm My Bed, Brother-in-law by PayalSinghRajput on NovelPedia.

ELENA POV. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Vitale, you can’t go in there yet." The nurse’s voice was soft, pitiful, and I hated it. I hated the way her eyes lingered on my bare feet and the way my hands wouldn't stop shaking. "He’s my husband," I said. My voice sounded thin, like a string pulled too tight. "I know. But the surgeons are still working. Please, sit down." I sat. I didn't have the strength to argue. I sank into one of the plush, velvet armchairs in the private wing. The hospital was a masterpiece of marble and hushed luxury, yet the heavy silence of the corridor suffocated me. My feet were bare. I had kicked my shoes off somewhere between the car and the entrance, and I hadn't noticed until now. I was still in the silk pants and cashmere sweater I'd put on for what was supposed to be a quiet evening. A quiet evening that ended with a phone call that changed everything. I hid my face in my hands and sobbed. I tried to breathe, but every breath came out wrong. I thought about Richard. Not the man he had become in the last two years—cold, distant, and perpetually occupied. I thought about the man I’d married five years ago. Richard and I used to be the couple everyone envied. When he first courted me in St. Petersburg, he was everything a Petrov daughter was taught to want. He was powerful, yes, but he was also attentive. He made me feel like I wasn't just a piece of a political puzzle. I remember the day he came to my father’s estate. He walked into the study and looked at me as if I were the only prize in the world worth winning. My father had smiled, a rare expression of genuine approval. He said, “He's a lion, Elena. He will fight for what he loves and never let it go. That is the kind of man you want beside you." I had believed him. I had believed Richard, too, on our wedding day, when he held my hand and told me he would keep me happy and safe. I had held onto that promise for five years. I was still holding it now, even with him bleeding and fighting for his life. Where did we go wrong, Richard? I wondered, my eyes burning. When did I stop being worth fighting for? Was it the weight of the empire? Or was it the war with his brother that had ground us both down until there was nothing left to hold onto? I didn't know. I wasn't sure I wanted to. I looked toward the surgery doors, my heart aching as I realized that the man I love was currently dying behind them. Just then, the sound of footsteps broke through my thoughts. Not the quick, soft steps of a nurse or the flat, heavy tread of the police. These were different. Unhurried. Each one landed with quiet certainty, making the back of my neck prickle. Damian. I lifted my head and saw him standing a few feet away. Even in the middle of a hospital, he looked effortlessly composed. His dark hair was perfectly swept back, and his features were sharp—almost too handsome in a way that felt dangerous. He wore a tailored dark coat that hid the gun holstered at his hip, though the slight bulge of the weapon was unmistakable to someone raised in our world. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching me like a man who already knew how the night was going to end. "You," I breathed. The word came out before I could stop it. The sadness didn't leave, it just got shoved aside by something sharper. Anger. It was the only thing solid enough to keep me from shattering right there on the hospital floor. I stood up. I was shorter than him, especially without my heels, and I felt small in my lounge clothes. But the Petrov blood in my veins didn't care about height. "You did this," I said, my voice gaining strength. He didn't say a word. He just stood there, watching me with those impenetrable eyes, and his refusal to speak was the final thread that snapped. It was the absolute calm in his posture that sent me over the edge. I didn't think and just reacted. I lunged forward and swung my hand as hard as I could. Crack. The slap cracked loud in the empty corridor. My hand stung. I