Conquer (XXX Vadim Book 3): Club XXX Book 6 by Lana Sky

Author:Lana Sky [Sky, Lana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-07-13T18:30:00+00:00

My second attempt at waking up isn’t as fun as the first. I groan even before I blink my eyes open to a dimly lit room and a tired, handsome face.

“Better?” Vadim asks, his fingers stroking my cheek.

I nod and wince. “I’m not high anymore,” I confess, my voice rasping. “But the tradeoff is that I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

And in a way, I have—a psychotic, blond, beautiful truck my memories tell me. I shiver at reliving them, choosing to focus on Vadim instead. He’s frowning, his jaw clenched, that muscle twitching.

“Four stab wounds. Fifty-two stitches in total,” he confesses, his tone blunt. “Spanning from your left shoulder down to your hip. They are deep, but all avoided any vital organs, thank God. Still, you will need to take care to ensure you heal without any complications. An infection could be difficult to recover from, and the surgeon warned that, given that the injuries to your shoulder sliced through muscle, you will be in pain.”

I wince. “That sounds about right.”

“Should I get the nurse?”

Grunting with the effort, I shake my head. “No. I’ll live…” Though a part of me shudders at the realization that Irina didn’t intend as much by accident. She deliberately avoided killing me. Why?

One look at the man across from me, and I can guess the answer—this was merely a warning, to him alone.

“Where is Magda?” I ask, alarmed when I don’t see her.

The hint of a smile sneaks into the corner of his mouth, so beautiful and unexpected that my physical pain is all but forgotten. “Charming your nurses into giving her more crayons, I suspect. She already has them wrapped around her finger.” His gaze softens a fraction, and I sense a part of him takes pride in his socially adept offspring. Like father like daughter.

Or could such skill stem from her mother?

I suck in a breath as my brain finally dares to connect the dots of the pain searing through my left side to the vague images circling my scattered memories. Fifty-two stitches. That beats my previous record—stemming from a drunken yacht accident—by double digits.

“Irina,” I croak, and Vadim stiffens, his gaze unreadable. But this time, he isn’t hiding behind his wall. “She attacked me—”

“I don’t know how she got in,” he swears, leaning forward to grip my hand, unconsciously pressing my fingers against his chest, near his heart. He’s seated beside me, his rumpled dress shirt betraying at least a few hours of vigil by my bedside—and something inside me heats and melts. At least in the brief second wherein I forget his psycho ex-partner in crime.

A horrible, sobering thought makes me slip my hand from his and utilize what little energy I have to brush his cheek, seeking out the contours of his haggard expression. “She doesn’t want Magda,” I tell him softly, a relief within itself. And, in so many ways, a tragedy for a child who, some might say, was abandoned by both parents at some point.

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