Under His Gaze

Ksenia's pov

I release a heavy sigh as I stare at the patient file clamped in my hands. The administrative board has made their decision, and once again, I am being coerced into taking over Doctor Clayton’s VIP assignment in Ward 16. Clayton only recently joined our hospital staff after an extensive stint overseas. He has an impeccable track record, but he struck out completely when it came to earning the trust of the terrifying Russian tycoon occupying our most expensive suite. After failing miserably to handle the man's volatile temper, Clayton retreated, and the hospital authorities immediately thrust me directly back into the firing line.

The board of directors prioritizes this specific man above all other patients in the building. Their strict mandate was delivered to me this morning: I am their designated scapegoat. I am the only physician permitted to treat him, evaluate him, or even step foot inside his room. Any failure to appease him will fall squarely on my shoulders.

My heart pounds a relentless rhythm against my ribs as the heavy oak doors of the private ward come into view down the long, sterile corridor. The two massive men stationed outside the door do not even blink as I approach. They merely step aside, their dark suits rustling.

Nikolai Sokolov is without question the most difficult, unpredictable, and enigmatic patient I have ever dealt with in my entire medical career. Having miraculously survived a catastrophic, mangled car crash last month that should have left him dead on arrival, the wealthy magnate has instead spent his recovery terrorizing the entire nursing staff. He flatly rejected every single doctor who tried to examine his wounds, refusing all treatment until the board sent me in to handle his case.

I push the heavy door open and step into the room.

The atmosphere is instantly suffocating. I find him sitting on the edge of his bed in heavy, oppressive silence. He does not look like a man recovering from a brush with death. He looks like an apex predator resting in captivity. His eagle-eyed, icy gaze instantly latches onto me the second the door clicks shut. The sheer intensity of his stare feels like literal iron chains snapping around my ankles, pinning my shoes to the polished floor tiles.

Despite my racing nerves and the sheer dread knotting my stomach, I cannot deny his impossibly striking physical features. His raven hair is styled back in sharp, immaculate lines. A sharp, chiseled jaw sits above a thick neck, leading down to a massive, imposing body carved from pure, unforgiving muscle. He is a mountain of a man, dwarfing the hospital bed he rests upon.

I set my medical tray down on the stainless steel counter and put on a composed, professional exterior. I arrange my plaster shears and sterilized tools in a neat row.

"You have shown great recovery, Mr. Sokolov. I am going to prepare my instruments and remove your wrist cast tonight."

True to his usual form, Nikolai does not say a word in response to my medical assessment. Instead, he shifts his icy gaze to his personal bodyguard standing near the corner of the suite. He gives a microscopic jerk of his chin. The heavily armed man nods once, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door with a loud, definitive click.

Nikolai ensures we are completely isolated behind closed doors. The air in the room instantly grows ten degrees hotter.

I swallow the dry lump in my throat and approach the bedside. He needs to take his upper garment off so I can properly check the fading lacerations on his torso and get a clean angle on his arm. I step up to the edge of the mattress and lean in to unbutton his hospital shirt.

The moment my fingers brush the first plastic button, Nikolai shifts backward. He deliberately positions his massive frame in the dead center of the wide king-sized hospital mattress. I pause, my fingers hovering in the air. I cannot reach his chest from the side of the bed anymore. The distance is too great. This is a calculated, intentional move on his part. He is forcing me to climb up and sit intimately beside him just to reach his broad chest.

I take a shallow breath, refusing to show how much his silent game rattles me. I climb onto the edge of the mattress and shift my weight onto the bed right beside his hip. The mattress sinks under our combined weight, tilting my body closer to his.

The proximity is dangerously overwhelming. I reach forward, navigating the buttons of his open shirt. Every accidental brush of my knuckles against his heated, bare skin sends an electric shockwave racing straight up my arm and crashing through my body. The raw, primal heat radiating from his massive chest makes my breath hitch. It is a shameful, humiliating, involuntary reaction. My body betrays my logic, soaking in the sensation of male heat simply because I am starved for it. My own husband has not placed a hand on me in two whole years. I have lived in a sterile, touchless void, and now a Russian mafia tycoon is setting my suppressed nerve endings on fire just by existing in my space.

Without warning, his large, calloused hand shoots up. Nikolai clamps his long fingers around my fragile wrist. The grip is ironclad. He halts my movements entirely pulling my hand upward with slow, deliberate force. He firmly guides the flat of my palm to the base of his thick neck, pressing my naked flesh directly against his own raw skin.

"Your touch is needed here."

His thick Russian accent rumbles deep within his chest, vibrating right into the palm of my hand. The low frequency of his voice sends a secondary jolt straight down my spine.

He leans closer. His face is mere inches from mine now. His icy gray eyes drop from my face, landing precisely on the gold wedding band resting on my left ring finger. A shadow of visible irritation flashes across his sharp features. His jaw clenches.

"Why did you skip your rounds last night?"

The abrupt demand catches me off balance. I try to pull my hand back, but his grip on my wrist remains unyielding, trapping my palm against the pounding pulse at the side of his neck.

"Doctor Clayton is a highly competent and capable physician who could have easily handled your checkup. I had an emergency surgical rotation to manage."

My defense sounds weak even to my own ears.

Nikolai cuts me off coldly. His eyes flick back up to lock onto mine.

"Clayton is merely good. He is not excellent."

His dismissal of one of our top doctors sends a spike of defensive adrenaline through my veins. I finally rip my hand free from his grip and grab the heavy plaster shears from the tray. I slide the blade under the edge of the hardened fiberglass cast on his wrist, leaning back to put a safe distance between our faces. I press down on the handles, hearing the sharp crack of the plaster giving way.

"And what exactly makes you think I am excellent, Mr. Sokolov?"

I slice through the remaining length of the cast and pull the heavy material away from his healed arm.

Before I can even blink, let alone register his lightning-fast movement, his massive free hand snakes around my waist. A startled gasp tears from my throat as the world flips upside down. The sheer momentum of his muscular body throws me backward.

My spine hits the center of the mattress. The heavy, crushing weight of his broad bare chest pins me flat against the sheets. He traps my legs beneath his heavy thighs, caging me in effortlessly. My heart leaps straight into my throat, hammering wildly against my sternum as I stare up into his dark, predatory face.

"Mr. Sokolov, this is a professional workplace, and your behavior is out of line."

My attempt to sound authoritative comes out as a breathless plea.

His rough fingers lift, immediately tracing the soft curve of my lower lip to silence me. The pad of his thumb drags over my mouth, heavy and deliberate.

"I do not care about your hospital rules, Ksenia. I take what I want at any cost."

His knuckles slowly graze down the slope of my cheek, trailing in a burning path down the sensitive skin of my neck. The sensory overload is paralyzing. That single, possessive touch sends a desperate, agonizing throbbing deep inside my pussy. An illicit, shameful flood of wetness pools between my thighs in direct response to his dominance.

I press my palms flat against the hard wall of his bare chest, trying to maintain some illusion of a barrier between us. The heavy beat of his heart thumps steadily against my hands.

"I am your assigned physician. I am also a married woman."

His jaw hardens into granite at the mention of my husband. His icy gaze drops once more, staring a hole right through the gold metal band on my finger.

"I want you."

The blunt, brazen declaration hangs in the suffocating air, stripping away all pretense and hospital etiquette. I narrow my eyes, finding a sudden flash of anger to combat the illicit thrill turning my blood to liquid fire.

"Let's be clear, Mr. Sokolov. You just want my body."

A wicked, dark smirk spreads across his sharp face, transforming his menacing expression into something predatory and deeply amused.

"You are a very intelligent woman. I love it."

The purr of his thick accent sends another shock of heat straight down to my core. I push firmly against the solid muscle of his chest, refusing to let him trap me in this intoxicating snare. I kick my legs out from beneath his weight, scrambling backward on the sheets until I manage to force myself into a sitting position.

"I will not say this again. I am a married woman and you—"

Before I can force the rest of my rejection out, his large hand shoots out and seizes the nape of my neck. His long fingers tangle into my hair, holding my head firmly in place.

Nikolai crushes his lips against mine.

The kiss is a sudden, blinding shockwave of heat. It is demanding, rough, and dripping with raw male hunger. My mind goes entirely blank as the reality of a man's dominant mouth ravages mine for the first time in years. At the exact same moment, his other hand slides downward, branding the skin of my chest as it trails heavily right into the deep valley of my cleavage. His thumb sweeps over my breastbone, scorching my skin through the thin fabric of my medical scrubs.

Just as my lips part on a breathless gasp, ready to surrender to the illicit fire he just ignited, he abruptly breaks contact.

He pulls his head back, leaving me panting and wide-eyed. His hand retreats from my chest, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me freezing in the sterile hospital air.

"There is no rush, Ksenia. I suggest you think about it."

His whisper scratches against my senses, laced with dark promises and infinite patience.

The moment his grip slackens on the back of my neck, survival instinct takes over. Seizing the sudden opening, I scramble off the edge of the tall hospital bed. My shoes hit the tile floor in a chaotic scramble. I do not look back. I lunge for the heavy wooden door, ripping it open and throwing myself out into the safety of the corridor.

I bolt past the two massive bodyguards, my feet slapping loudly against the polished floor. I do not stop running until I am a full ten feet down the hallway, pressing my back flat against the cold plaster wall. My chest heaves with oxygen. My knees shake so violently they threaten to buckle. My lips tingle with the phantom pressure of his mouth, and deep down, my body continues to harbor the illicit, forbidden fire he ignited with a single touch.