Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “Elena!” He shouted her name, and he ran. He ran because it was grand gesture, and he was going to drop dead if he didn’t get to her.

            He shouted again. “Elena!”

            Ahead, a woman in a gown stepped out from behind a curtain. She had blood on her face and ice on her wrist.

            Elena.

            “Vlad.”

            He ran toward her.

            He tripped.

            And fell at her feet.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





It’s all fun and games until you’re flat on your back in an emergency room and your wife starts yelling at you in Russian.

            Elena towered over him, hands on her hips, and a fierce look on her face. He’d never been so in love in his entire life.

            “I cannot believe you,” she shouted. “What are you doing? Were you running? Where are your crutches?”

            “I— We always run for grand gesture,” Vlad panted.

            Colton winced as he offered a hand to help him up. “Dude, I may not speak Russian, but pissed-off wife is a universal language. I don’t think she appreciated the grand gesture.”

            Vlad ignored the sharp pain in his leg as he stood. He didn’t care. If he’d hurt it again, his leg would heal, and even if it didn’t, he’d survive. But he wouldn’t survive another day without Elena. Nearly losing her had put things in perspective rather quickly.

            He hobbled toward his wife. His beautiful, smart, generous, brave wife. Elena’s features softened, and her arms shot out just in case he fell again. He limped straight into her embrace, wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her neck, and sobbed. He clung to her. Breathed her in. Kissed her neck and tasted the life-affirming salt of her sweat and tears.

            “I was so scared,” he choked. “I thought I lost you.”

            “I thought I lost you too. I’m so sorry, Vlad. I’m so sorry.”

            He pulled back and smoothed the hair from her face, rage pushing at his temples at the sight of blood on her skin. “I wasn’t there, Elena.” His voice was a snotty hiccup. “If I hadn’t left, if I’d been there—”

            “I’m glad you weren’t, because they might have killed you on the spot.”

            He went cold at the factual, impassive tone of her voice. As if she were willing to risk her life to protect him. Vlad wiped his face and glowered. “You say that like any of this is normal.”

            “In my life, it kind of has been.”

            He shook his head. “I can’t believe your father made you think that.”

            She curled her lips into a patient smile. “Vlad, I think you should sit down, because I need to say some things.”

            “Now?”

            “Yes, now. I need you to hear me.”

            Vlad nodded reluctantly. He sat down, and she stepped between his legs. He had to look up to see her.

            “You learn a lot about yourself when someone kidnaps you,” she said.

            “That isn’t funny,” he rasped. “How can you joke about any of this?”

            She smoothed his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead. “Because a macabre sense of humor is how journalists like my father and me process the horrific things we see.”

            “You are not like your father.”

            “But I am. In so many ways I am.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “He did a lot of things wrong. You were right about that. And I think you were also right that I’ve been desperate to make his absence in my life worth it.”

            “I shouldn’t have said that. It was cruel.”

            “No, I needed to hear it. I couldn’t see what I was doing to myself and to us. You helped me see that, and I will love you forever for it.”