The MisFit Books 1-4: The MisFit

By AB Plum

Five dark, fast-paced books to keep you up all night …because not all monsters live under the bed.

The four MisFit Series novels, plus the prequel.

Can a ten-year-old boy pull off the perfect murder?

Michael Romanov does and takes the first twisted step toward becoming a serial killer by the time he's an adolescent. Love, they say, offers redemption. In early middle age, Michael falls hard for a totally unsuitable woman. What are the chances of an HEA ending?

This boxed set includes:
The Boy Nobody Loved
The Early Years
The Lost Days
The In-Between Years
The Reckless Year

• Language: English
• Publisher: AB Plum
• Release date: Jan 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386893745

Book preview

The MisFit Boxed Set

The Beginning

The Boy Nobody Loved, Prequel

The Early Years, Book 1

The Lost Days, Book 2

The In-Between Years, Book 3

The Reckless Year, Book 4

By AB Plum

Table of Contents

The MisFit Boxed Set

About the Book

A Note from the Author

The Boy Nobody Loved

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The Early Years

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

The Lost Days

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

The In-Between Years

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

The Reckless Year

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Epilogue

Excerpt – The Dispensable Wife

About the Author

About the Book

Five dark, fast-paced books to keep you up all night … because not all monsters live under the bed.

Can a psychopath understand love?

Most humans yearn for meaningful relationships with others. Michael Romanov, a true misfit, prefers making the world bend to his way of thinking. He doesn’t worry about nature or nurture. Being a misfit is just fine. He learns—too young, perhaps— he is the only person he can really depend on. And he hones a tried and true fallback plan for every betrayal.

A Note from the Author

Each book in this popular digital set is a stand-alone novel. Reading them follows Michael’s journey from birth to adulthood and a marriage made in hell. Nothing will prepare you for the twists in his warped mind. He definitely is not your mother’s Hannibal Lector or even Dexter.

As an added bonus to accompany this box set: The Boy Nobody Loved, available exclusively through my website, gives you more than 600 pages that turn themselves.

The Boy Nobody Loved

Prequel

The Boy Nobody Loved twists the theory of nature and nurture into dozens of knots. The perfect portal into Michael’s world, it begins where all stories begin—with family.

All families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

~ Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

Chapter 1

Copenhagen — January 17, 1965 — Midnight

A boy! A big boy! A huge boy! Dr. Mogens Dahl forgot his normal professional demeanor and shouted over his patient, unconscious following her one-hour C- section.

The newborn wailed with ear-splitting gusto—reassurance his lungs were definitely developed enough for such a sturdy guy.

The gynecologist paused in overseeing his patient and gazed at the slick, red body writhing in the pediatric nurse’s hands. She cooed until the infant quieted.

Dahl exhaled. Twenty years of practice, and he never failed to get excited about delivering a healthy baby.

In this particular case, his euphoria amounted to stupidity.

Pediatrician Dr. Jens Ravn waited in the corner of the delivery room designated for him to perform his exams of the newborn. Calm now, the baby lay on a heated scale. Its warmth bridged the shock between womb and stainless steel. His squinty eyes, gooey from antibiotics, seemed to follow Nurse Sophie Andersen as she twisted the dial to register his weight.

Four point six kilos. Awe raised Sophie’s voice above her normal whisper.

Face scrunching, the baby whimpered.

The nurse transferred him to a table covered in warm blankets. How in the name of God did that tiny woman carry this bruiser?

How in the name of God did she endure twenty-two hours of labor? Jens Ravn tapped the newborn’s chest. She’ll curse Dahl for the rest of her days for the stretch marks.

Imagine breast feeding this guy. Sophie opened a drawer. The metal measuring tape she retrieved slithered through her fingers and cracked on the tiled floor.

The baby let out a hefty scream.

Sorry. Sophie dragged out the word in a long croon and stroked the baby’s arm.

Maybe they’ll hire a cow for their back yard, the pediatrician drawled.

Sophie snickered. Assisting Dr. Ravn was always relaxing and fun. His reputation for droll humor—stemmed from, it was suggested—working with children. She picked up the tape, turned on the hot water, and held the tape underneath the spray pinging into the sink.

The baby screamed as if she was holding him under a fire hose.

Sophie turned off the water, and her small charge’s shrieks trailed off to whimpers.

Okay, you now have my total attention. She measured from the baby’s head to his toes, frowned, and re-measured. Sixty point ninety-six centimeters.

Dr. Ravn whistled.

An immediate howl from the baby boomeranged around the delivery room. His feet kicked out and his arms flailed.

Dr. Dahl stuck his head around the curtain separating him and his patient from the pediatric check-up. Are you torturing that child?

Dr. Ravn shrugged. I never sing in public. Or in the shower, but no one ever told me I can’t whistle.

Sophie stroked the baby’s cheek. Poor thing. He’s probably starved. Shall I bring him a bottle?

Let me finish his exam.

The nurse and pediatrician spoke in hushed tones. As was his usual custom, Dr. Ravn himself pricked the baby’s heel for the infant’s first blood test. Most nurses hated doing the deed, but the doctor claimed he didn’t mind. Insisted it was as routine as checking the oximetry sensors to rule out congenital heart defects. Everyone agreed he was good and rarely made a baby cry.

He inserted the small earphone first in one pink ear, then the other. Sophie held her breath. Good. Not even a sigh. She gazed closer at the patient.

The infant showed no obvious discomfort, but she would swear the child’s eyes narrowed. Silently laughing at the idea, she patted the baby’s wrist and Dr. Ravn finished his screening. He nodded at her, stepped away from the table, and instructed her to bring the bottle before his young charge raised the roof again.

Normally, he’d wait for Mrs. Romanov to come out of the anesthesia and offer her the baby. Bonding should start immediately. Ravn always recommended breastfeeding as soon as possible. Sometimes, his recommendations bordered on insistence. When cuddled and petted, babies simply thrived.

In this case, Dahl had already stated in no uncertain terms the mother had no intention of breastfeeding her offspring. Ravn had probed subtly, then more aggressively, for reasons to understand her decision. Dahl clammed up. He simply refused to elaborate, and all further discussion shut down.

A surprise since the two men respected each other and got on well. Dahl asserted that of the two of them, Ravn had the harder task—with too many new mothers needy and anxious and often downright confrontational when it came to the care of their baby.

Give me confrontational over indifferent any day. Ravn finished writing his test findings. On his way out of the delivery room, he cast one last look at the baby. Damn, what a pity. Every kid should have a mother who thought he was the cutest, smartest, most lovable baby in the history of the species.

Too bad this big guy’s mother had failed to get the message.

Chapter 2

When can I see my wife? Two black, bloodshot eyes glared at Mogens Dahl as he shuffled into the empty hall outside the OR. Fly-away white hair framed an out-of-control black beard, adding to the speaker’s air of menace.

Shiiit. Instinctively, Mogens took a backward step. The temptation to re-enter the OR flickered, but he squared his shoulders and faced the asshole.

Dammit, Sergei, get out of my face. I’m not Aliina.

Sergei Romanov ignored the order and closed the distance between them in a forward lunge. Is Aliina all right?

You know she is. I sent the nurse out immediately after the birth. Which is more than you deserved to know.

More than an hour ago. What took you so long?

I needed to do some repair work. Instead of laying out the whole truth—that the repair work had as much to do with Sergei’s sexual abuse as with the delivery of his spawn—Mogens told some of the truth. Your son’s a real bruiser.

Meaning what?

Meaning I should’ve delivered him three week ago. Meaning Aliina’s too small to carry a ten-pound baby. Meaning she’s too small to have marital relations with a fuckin’ Russian hulk.

You’re her doctor. Why didn’t you insist she listen?

You’re her husband. Why weren’t you here? Where you belong, hung unsaid. Fury closed Mogens’ throat. The bastard had no concept of tenderness.

I tried to get back. Have you ever visited Yakutsk in November?

Yes. The summer before I spent the winter in a meat locker. Mogens delivered the sarcasm in a typical Danish monotone. He had no problem admitting he was a wimp to anyone but Sergei.

Of course, in Sergei’s eyes, every male besides himself was a wimp.

When can I see her?

When I say you can see her. Something snapped at the back of Mogens’ skull. He blinked and inhaled the smell of alcohol, anesthesia, and brackish seawater. Aliina had finally come to the hospital after twenty-two hours of in-home labor. Bloated. Feverish. Incoherent.

Bacteria in her uterus had spread to the amniotic fluid. Mogens had cursed for a full minute. Against her specific wishes, he ordered the Cesarean to save her life. He’d treated only one other woman with amnionitis and hoped to forget—someday—the foul smell still plugging his nostrils.

Sergei, of course, had no clue how close Aliina had come to dying.

All right, Sergei, let’s get this straight. Your wife’s had a very hard time. You’re lucky she survived.

Exactly why I want to see her.

She’s still out of it. I had to give her some extra drugs for the pain.

How bad was the pain? A hint of voyeurism rode the question.

Mogens clenched his teeth. Go home. Come back tomorrow around noon.

Noon? That’s twelve hours from now.

Your wife needs rest. Quiet. Mogens jammed his hands in his pockets. As her doctor, I’m saying come back tomorrow at noon.

What about the baby?

You can see him in the nursery.

Is he all right?

You’ll have to check with Dr. Ravn. Shut the fuck up.

I’m checking with you.

Check with Dr. Ravn. Mogens turned away. Christ, he hated this bastard.

Where can I find him?

No idea. I can page him if you want.

Of course I want. A spot of saliva pooled in the corner of Sergei’s mouth.

Since he doesn’t know you, I suggest you try to present a somewhat more rational front.

Page him! Sergei drew himself up, up, up—like a balloon filling with helium.

Sit down. She said she’d do anything to keep from having the baby. I didn’t know she meant dying. I should’ve listened.

Mouth tight, eyes narrowed, Sergei expanded.

Sit down, Mogens repeated, willing himself to face the asshole who used and abused his wife. Why didn’t she leave the bastard?

Sergei swept his hand in front of his chest. Page Ravn.

Resistance thrummed in Mogens’ gut. He stared back at the man trying to intimidate him. He has the right to see his son.

Logic took hold. Ears ringing, Mogens crossed to the phone on the nearby wall. He exhaled, picked up the receiver, and spoke in a voice too low for Sergei to overhear. He nodded, remembered the operator on the other end couldn’t see him, and replaced the receiver. After a deep breath, he turned on a silent exhale.

Dr. Ravn should be here in a couple of minutes. I have other patients.

Sergei lurched at Mogens. Just a minute—

Mogens sidestepped the other man’s forward motion. I have other patients. Aliina is only one of them. Push me, you bastard. I dare you.

I’m not going home tonight. I’ll sleep on the floor in Aliina’s room.

Like hell. Did you hear a word I said? What space Sergei took up horizontally, Mogens took up vertically. He forced the other man to crane his neck to lock eyes.

Sergei lifted his chest. Do you forget who I am?

Mogens arched a brow. Fiftieth or sixtieth cousin of the last czar, aren’t you?

Blood suffused Sergei’s face in the dark, unhealthy burgundy of an impending stroke. The vein in his right temple bulged, accentuating the tic in his locked jaw. "And you’re the first son of a hunhund."

Hunhund. For a fraction of a second, Mogens felt like laughing. The self-described genius Sergei Romanov didn’t know Danish as well as he thought. Hunhund was a female breeder dog and carried no real insult.

What? No smart comeback, doctor?

The laugh died before it was born. Mogens crossed his arms over his chest. Now was probably not the best time for a Danish lesson. Not with Sergei reeking of outrage. His nose twitched. One more taunt will send him over the edge.

A sliver of caution cut through Mogens’ impulse to goad the asshole. The chief of medicine would frown on inducing a cerebral hemorrhage in a patient’s spouse.

He said, I’ll arrange for blankets and pillows in the visitors’ lounge.

***

Avoid another confrontation with the bastard, Mogens rationalized, barking at an orderly to take care of the bedding. I have better a better way to use my time. He slipped into Aliina’s softly lit room.

Pale as the bed coverings, she barely made a bump under the sheets and goose-down duvet.

Fairy. He never saw her without thinking of a fairy. Asleep or awake, she exuded enchantment. His heart thumped. He pressed his back into the closed door and stared at her with a mixture of longing and melancholy.

Saying she was beautiful smacked of triteness. Trite, but true. He’d treated thousands of beautiful women during his twenty-year career. None had ever tempted him to think of them as anything other than his obstetrical or gynecological patient. Mogens prided himself on his Danish logic and in-control emotions. Milk showed more passion than he ever exhibited. He considered his objectivity as his best qualification to help women conceive and bear children or to accept their biological imperative to forgo bringing another life into the world.

Aliina sighed, whispering something inaudible in her drugged state. She moved her head to the right, then to the left. Mogens pushed away from the door and approached the bed.

To make sure she’s not in pain.

The lie skated through his brain, but he listened to his feeble protest. He simply didn’t want her to suffer any more than she already had. No doctor would want her in pain. Yet, in some part of his brain, he accepted the truth. He wanted an excuse to draw closer—even by only a few feet. Tomorrow, when he’d have to allow Sergei in her room, he’d keep his distance.

She moaned and rolled her head back toward him.

He pressed his fingers to her pulse. Faster than he liked, but not unexpected. Min Gud, what she’d endured amounted to torture. A sudden, intense jolt of dislike for the baby hit him in the gut. He gasped.

Christ, what was wrong with him?

Aliina’s eyes snapped open—accusing and appalled.

She knew what was wrong with him. She knew he’d betrayed her. She knew he’d delivered the child she’d begged him to abort.

He grabbed her hand, squeezed her fingers, and started babbling. He loved helping bring new life into the world. Nothing equaled being present at the birth of a healthy newborn. Effusive thanks from both parents fed some part of his self-worth—a part he hoped was better than pure ego.

He’d tried to explain, but Aliina wouldn’t listen. Up until that moment when she lay on his table, she thought he’d cave to her wishes.

I’m sorry. He fought the desire to caress her cheek. In time, you’ll learn to love this child as much as you love Alexei.

Her face twisted. Never. He’s a monster.

Chapter 3

Aliina’s words chased Mogens out of her room. He skirted the visitors’ lounge—semi-dark and quiet. No one waiting. Hospitals at this time of night always raised a few shivers on his neck. He glanced over his shoulder. Had Sergei commandeered the lounge so he could sleep? Or were there no other babies being born at this time?

Mogens yawned, stretched, kneaded his lower back. Aliina’s back must’ve hurt like hell. When did the contractions escalate? Were they her first clue she’d gone into labor? Mogens rounded the corner to the nursery and exhaled the breath he’d been holding. No sign of Sergei.

Maybe he’d gone home. Like the housekeeper who had brought Aliina to the hospital in the Romanov limo. The housekeeper reported Aliina had not eaten or taken fluids for two days. She’s lucky she didn’t die from dehydration. She’ll have bruises for a month from the IV and anesthesia sites.

Christ, what if the baby had had a normal-sized head and she’d delivered him on her own? Mogens tapped on the nursery door, relieved Sophie Andersen answered immediately. She was carrying the newest Romanov.

Without any prompting, she volunteered, Dr. Ravn spoke with the father.

How’d that go? Mogens glanced at the six bassinettes—all empty except for one at the far end of the room.

The father apparently became agitated. Sophie jiggled the baby in the crook of her arm. He looked big enough to walk. Dr. Ravn called security.

Acid spilled into Mogens’ gut. I’d hoped . . .

When he didn’t finish, Sophie said, As you know, Dr. Ravn is the world’s most unflappable human being.

We agree. Ravn deserved a nomination for sainthood. Mothers in Copenhagen registered for his new patients list from the second they suspected they were pregnant. Mr. Romanov, on the other hand, probably can’t spell unflappable.

Sophie cut short her giggle by ducking her head and cooing to the baby.

Where is Dr. Ravn?

He went home. Mr. Romanov kicked him off the case. Eyes wide, Sophie whispered like a child telling tales about a grownup. Dr. Kruse is on call. Dr. Lund asked him to step in.

You’re joking. The hospital’s CEO stepped in? When Copenhageners give up beer. Mogens shook his head. They got Lund out of bed?

He’s on his way to the hospital. Mr. Romanov swore he’d call the police commissioner if anyone besides Lund showed up.

Oh, for Gud’s— Mogens bit back the rest of his oath. I’d better get out of here. He glanced at the bundle in Sophie’s arms. How is he?

Quiet. For the first time since we brought him into the nursery. Dr. Ravn was checking him out for a possible ear infection. Maybe nerve damage. The slightest noise sets him off.

Not my problem, thank God. Has Mr. Romanov seen him?

Sergei, the father who roared under normal circumstances. The perfect father for a child with sensitivity to sounds.

Mogens kept the sarcasm to himself and half listened to Sophie’s recital of the scene after Dr. Kruse escorted Sergei to the nursery.

First, he didn’t want to suit up.

Now there’s a surprise.

I heard every word here in the nursery. He blustered. Threatened. Swore he’d sue.

Mogens snorted. In Denmark?

Security held firm. Said they had to protect all the babies. We have only the one other newborn. But—

Let me guess. Mogens held up his hand like a traffic cop. Mr. Romanov said to bring the baby to him somewhere else.

Sophie nodded, and she looked down at the baby, her carotid hammering, her lips pressed in a hard, white line. This poor guy. His father didn’t understand about susceptibility to germs outside a controlled environment. He wanted to see with his own eyes that the baby looks like him.

Exactly like him. A blind man would see the likeness in the wide forehead. The weird, squinty eyes. The wide, sensual lower lip. Mogens exhaled, relaxed his jaw, and mentally counted to ten before speaking. Did Kruse lose his temper?

On the contrary. He spoke in a calm, controlled tone of voice that left no doubt he’d take on Mr. Romanov physically if it came to that.

I’ve seen him cow guys twice his size, Mogens said. Never figured out how someone as short as he is projects he’s ten-feet tall.

Me either. I watched them from behind the blinds. Dr. Kruse and Mr. Romanov stared at each other like two mad bulls. Neither blinked for—I swear—five minutes. Mr. Romanov blinked first and—

I owe Dr. Kruse the next round of Carlsberg, Mogens interrupted, then immediately locked his jaw. What the hell was wrong with him? Why not just take out a front-page ad in Berlingske? Let everyone know he hated Sergei Romanov?

Sophie opened her mouth, but he spoke over her again. I have to leave. I’m sure Dr. Kruse told you to keep the door locked.

He did. She dogged Mogens’ heels the few feet across the room, waited as he checked the eyehole, and added, I do feel sorry for this little man. No one seems to love him.

We’re professionals, Sophie. Your statement is pure conjecture. Mogens had a quick flash of himself wagging his finger at one of the best nurses around.

The ashes in his guts ignited. Goddammit. Who was he to judge Sophie when he agreed with her thoughts? Against his better judgment, he turned from the door. Sergei Romanov is a powerful man. Look what happened to Ravn. Be very careful what you say that could get back to hurt you.

Her blue, guileless eyes widened. Rosy cheeks and Danish blonde hair added to her air of innocence. Not in her wildest imaginings could she conceive of Romanov’s twisted nature. Mogens touched her upper arm, and she flinched.

No surprise. He’d crossed the strict professional code of conduct between nurses and doctors at Queens Hospital. To hell with protocol. He squeezed Sophie’s arm. I’m not being melodramatic. Do not mess with Romanov. Or repeat your comment to Lund. Let our esteemed CEO handle this mess. Do you understand?

She stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Do you understand? When she made no reply, he shook her arm and spoke louder, not a shout, but too loud for the small nursery. Say nothing to anyone—

The baby’s scream ricocheted around the enclosed space.

Sophie turned her back on Mogens and leaned over the crying bundle. Shhh, shhhh, shhhh.

All right, I’m leaving. Remember what I said. Mogens opened the door and stepped into the hall.

Voices floated toward him from the next corridor. Lund already?

Not unless he flew. Mogens stopped, straining to hear. Accustomed to people waiting on him, the CEO moved slower than the Earth orbiting the sun.

Sergei Romanov, what do you know that built a fire under my favorite CEO?

Mogens had heard gossip about kickbacks on hospital supplies, but he’d paid no attention. He delivered babies and ignored hospital politics. Unlike Sophie, he kept his speculations close to his chest. Which might explain his reluctance to persuade Aliina to leave her bastard-husband.

The drone of voices, louder now, broke his daydreaming. He cut around the corner and jogged for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Did that asshole actually think Aliina had gotten pregnant by another man? Who?

Someone even more powerful. Mogens’ gut clenched. How many times had he fantasized taking Aliina—his patient—to bed?

His foot caught on the bottom step. Shiiit.

He grabbed the railing, missed taking a nosedive, but twisted his arm up and behind him. Fire shot through his supraspinous muscle. He gritted his teeth. Goddammit . . . had he torn his damn rotator cuff?

He slid his hand down the railing, easing first one foot, then the other, onto the floor. Wincing, he loosened his fingers one by one. Could he drive?

Probably, but should he drive?

Looking for an excuse to sleep near Aliina?

Christ, what a pervert. He crossed his injured arm over his chest and felt suddenly lightheaded. He took a deep breath. Good thing he didn’t have any deliveries scheduled for another week. Of course he hadn’t had Aliina scheduled until day after tomorrow …

Chapter 4

Be a brave boy, now. This will hurt.

Shut up, Lars. Mogens turned his head away from Iversen’s needle long enough to fell a whale. Why are ER doctors all such ghouls?

Lars laughed and jammed the needle filled with cortisone with all his might.

Jesus, Iversen. You hit my tailbone.

Paging Doctor Stork—

Jump like that again, Mogens, and you’ll end up in surg—

Paging Doctor Stork, stat.

Shut up, Lars. Hand me the phone. That’s my page.

Uh-huh. I know the codes. He jerked the needle out of Mogens’ arm.

Jesus! Salt flooded the back of Mogens’ throat.

You’ll curse me worse tomorrow. Iversen handed him the wall phone. Don’t do anything stupid.

Stupid. In the elevator, the word ping-ponged around in Mogen’s skull. He smashed the fifth floor button repeatedly. The door snicked shut after a decade.

Christ, he should’ve ordered a private nurse for Aliina. The morphine he’d ordered following delivery should’ve kept her unconscious for hours. Yet she’d wakened, pulled out the IV, and staggered into the hallway before the floor nurse found her reeling and delirious despite the antibiotics he’d prescribed.

Shoulder aching, he entered her room. God, he’d love to crawl into her bed, wrap his good arm around her, and protect her from Sergei for the rest of her life.

The floor nurse pounced on him, speaking so fast he had to concentrate on what she didn’t say as much as the words she hurled at him. He picked up on her blatant tone of accusation. He should’ve warned them she required closer care. Did he realize he’d left no orders for a blood transfusion? She was covered in blood by the time they got her back to bed.

Mogens threw back the covers, pulled up her gown and stared. God, she’d made a bloody mess of his careful, precise sutures. How, with her short nails?

Dr. Lund is looking for you, the nurse said during the pause. He wants—

Get me the emergency OR, he barked. I need the scrub team and anesthesiologist on board in four minutes. Get a gurney here now.

He gave orders automatically with total confidence. Hold on, Aliina. I’ll make this up to you.

Three hours later, arm screaming, he pulled off his surgical garb, stepped into the closest shower, and let the stinging water pound his fatigue. Groaning, he turned off the water and toweled off unsure if he was conscious.

He had to sit down to redress. On his feet again, he shuffled to the staff lounge. Coffee. Shoot it straight into a vein. He opened the door. Pain suddenly shot through his arm.

Jesus. He exhaled. A couple of the OR nurses glanced up. He ignored them and stumbled to the coffee pot. He’d check on Aliina … grab a bunk … doctors’ quarters. The scalding coffee took off a layer of his tongue. Easing his back against the wall, he drank half the cup. Someone spoke to him. He mumbled a curt reply. His mind was jumping from too much adrenaline. Sleep. He had to sleep. Aliina was in recovery for two hours. Check on her again. Release her to a private room.

Lund could wait until then. Or go to hell.

Gritty-eyed exhausted in spite of the shower and the coffee, Mogens rinsed his cup in the small sink and retraced his steps to the door. He turned the door handle and jumped back, heart thumping.

Min Gud, Henrik!

Looming in the doorway as solid as a Viking, CEO Henrik Lund bared his teeth in some kind of macabre facsimile of a smile. His red-blonde hair brushed the top of the doorframe. His eyes glinted like new ice. My office, Dahl. Now.

I have a patient I need—

Your patient is in good hands.

I need to see for myself. Mogens pushed past Lund.

Hold on. The larger man pivoted around, grabbing Mogens’ injured arm.

Mogens stumbled, seeing black, dancing spots. Somehow, he remained standing—unsteady, but on his feet. The fingers on his good hand curled into a tight fist.

The buzz in the lounge died. The nurse who had assisted him with Aliina set her cup of coffee on the nearest table and spoke to Lund. Would you like a cup of coffee, Dr. Lund?

Generations of quiet Danish manners required that the hospital chief accept the olive branch. Either accept or risk losing face in front of staff members from whom he demanded courtesy at all times.

Thank you, he said, his tone brittle and clipped. Dr. Dahl, you have ten minutes.

The harsh note of authority ratcheted up the exquisite range of pain in Mogens’ arm while the air around them popped with his colleagues’ desire for peace.

He said, If I need more time, I’ll let you know.

I don’t have all night, Dr. Dahl.

I’m sure ten minutes will be sufficient. Peace was highly prized in Denmark.

Later, Mogens would swear he heard a collective intake of breath before Lund finally said, I’ll be waiting.

Legs jittery from the confrontation, Mogens entered Aliina’s room a few minutes later. Bone white—despite two units of blood—Aliina lay like a fairy-tale princess waiting for her prince’s kiss.

Dammit. He should never have agreed to meet with Lund for at least an hour. The closer he got to the bed, the more keenly he noted her waxy skin.

High blood sugar? He’d monitored her closely for gestational diabetes, but she’d missed her last three blood tests. Dammit.

He raised her gown. Dressings dry and clean. What he’d expect so soon after surgery. He found her pulse. 150. Too high. Temp elevated at 100, but down two degrees since she delivered the baby.

He lowered the covers, touching her thigh briefly, and then spoke to the nurse. She needs constant observation. Call in another nurse if necessary. Until I can arrange for private care.

Would Sergei agree to the costs without seeing her?

To hell with Sergei. I’ll pay.

And if Lund found out, Mogens would pay with more than money.

Chapter 5

Sleeping like an angel, Sophie whispered twenty minutes later in response to Mogens’ question about the baby’s status.

Depending on who was keeping time, he was pushing his luck with Lund. God, his shoulder ached. Did Lund bring Mr. Romanov to the nursery?

Dr. Lund came alone. I told him the baby was sleeping for the first time since delivery. He left and hasn’t returned.

What about Dr. Kruse?

She shook her head. No sign of him, but Dr. Ravn called.

He took a chance.

He trusts me. The simple declaration explained the stars in her eyes. Did Ravn know she was in love with him?

What’d he say?

He thinks the baby may have hyperacusis. That’s a hypersensi—

I finished medical school, Sophie. Mogens didn’t have time to listen to her regurgitation that hyperacusis was atypical and rarely congenital.

Unless toxins in the womb damaged the ear canal.

Aliina had presented with amnionitis. Shit, what if the infection had passed to her baby? What about neurological conditions? He glanced at his watch again. He’d have to call Ravn. He was the expert on babies.

Do battle with Lund first.

***

Mogens and Lund rode the elevator to the first floor without speaking, each staring at the shining metal wall as if they’d never seen anything so miraculous. Mogens’ fingers twitched. Christ, he wanted to massage his damn shoulder. He made a fist. No way he’d give Lund any advantage.

The door slid open. They walked side by side like school chums. Passing through the reception area outside Lund’s office, Mogens’ nose twitched. He sniffed.

Goddammit. Sergei’s inside.

Absorbing the stink of pissed-off male, Mogens stopped a few feet from the door into the inner office. Is this a private meeting? Just the two of us?

As a matter of fact—

As a matter of fact, I refuse to speak to Mr. Romanov at this time. Legs wobbling, Mogens pivoted toward the door behind them.

Lund dogged his heels. If I say you will speak with him, you will speak with him. The man is out of his mind with worry. Reassure him his wife will live.

An invisible sledgehammer slammed Mogens behind the knees. He grabbed the door handle. Sweat popped out along his nape and forehead. Between clenched teeth, he stated, Sergei Romanov doesn’t want reassurance. Not about his wife. He wants reassurance of the baby’s paternity.

Lund’s lower lip curled. Don’t be ridiculous.

Right now I’m about to be sick. I’m in no shape to speak with anyone. Sweat sluiced into Mogens’ eyes as he tried to focus on Lund.

Christ, man, what’s wrong with you? Lund led him away from the door.

Mogens stumbled, caught himself, and then swayed before collapsing in the nearest chair. I-I hurt my shoulder. I need to lie down.

You hurt your shoulder? Here in the hospital? How?

Mentally smiling, Mogens licked his dry lips. Lund, The Compassionate. I need to lie down.

I’ll call someone. In the meantime, take a minute to speak with—

The inner office door banged open. Sergei glared at them and barked, I thought I heard voices. It took you long enough. I could’ve gone to Siberia and back. What kind of hospital are you running here, Henrik? I’d get more attention from my vet.

He materialized beside Lund, but shifted his attention to Mogens. What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t look fit to treat a dog.

Dr. Dahl is feeling unwell, Lund said in the voice all doctors learned to calm the family of dying patients.

Do you think I give a damn? Sergei snarled.

I don’t. And Mogens leaned across his knees and vomited on Sergei’s fancy leather boots before everything went black.

***

You’ll owe Lund for the rest of your life. In the ER, a grinning Iversen offered Mogens a glass of orange juice.

Shut up. Mogens gulped the juice, and then turned his head toward the opposite wall. What time is it? How long was I out?

Iversen took the empty glass. You’re lucky you didn’t take a nosedive in your own puke.

How long? Mogens glanced at the clock. Ten minutes from the time he threw up until they loaded him on a gurney and hauled him back to the ER.

Including the time you were faking?

Faking? What are you talking about?

Iversen rolled his big blue eyes. Don’t ever play poker with me. You want out of here or you want me to keep you for observation overnight?

Where’s Lund?

In his office. Trying to calm the new father. Guy’s about to lose it from what I hear.

He’s already lost it. Mogens laid his head back and stared at the ceiling. How much longer could he stall Sergei?

So, you staying or going? Iversen asked.

Staying. On one condition.

That makes me nervous.

I want to be able to slip in and out to see my patient.

And I want to be knighted by the Queen of England.

Chapter 6

Slipping in and out of the ER to see Aliina the first time left Mogens drenched in an icy sweat. Iversen declared him nuts, but ordered warm blankets and more orange juice. Mogens didn’t give a damn that his teeth chattered. At least he knew from his own examination that Aliina was stabilizing. Even better, the private nurse informed him she’d not seen Sergei.

Two more trips reconfirmed Mogens’ assessment of Aliina’s physical status. Mercifully, she remained unconscious. Meaning Sergei could not see her until she wakened and showed signs of mental alertness. Mogens closed his eyes and lay in his dimly lit ER cubicle trying to resuscitate his own mental alertness. He needed a plan to outwit Sergei. Just for another twenty-four hours.

Ideas swam in an out of his mind like guppies—scattering in all directions when he tried to grab a thought. He fought to keep his eyes open. Not only did he want to protect Aliina, but he also wanted to salve his pride.

Silence engulfed him. Quiet in the ER was surprising. Not surprising enough, though, to keep him awake. Despite his best intentions, he felt consciousness fade in and out, and then slip away on an unmoored boat. He drifted farther and farther away from shore. His mind churned, slowed, shut down. The bright pain in his arm eased. He sighed and plunged over an abyss.

Dr. Dahl. Wake up.

His head flopped from side to side. Trying to shake off the vise on his screaming arm, he mumbled a response, but made no effort to open his eyes.

Dr. Dahl! Mrs. Romanov’s awake. She’s delirious.

Mogens’ eyes snapped open and he swung his legs over the edge of the cot. The taste of burnt coffee refluxed in his throat. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and the gesture sent pain slicing through his skull.

Dr. Dahl. Did you hear—

I’m coming. What time—? He lurched to his feet and shuffled through the door, squinting against the fluorescent lights. Disoriented, he stopped. Where was he?

Three in the morning. At his side, a disembodied form took his arm. Back elevator. It’s faster.

Back … a flashbulb popped inside his head. He pivoted, seeing an elevator a few feet ahead. He jogged toward the shiny silver door. On autopilot, he smacked the UP button. Aliina’s face strobed in his mind’s eye. The elevator door slid open a crack. He stuck his hand through the space, cursed when the form next to him pushed his hand aside.

When the door opened fully, Mogens charged into the elevator. Christ, what was wrong with his arm?

Aliina’s face appeared next to him. He blinked. The elevator jolted to a stop. The form pushed him into the hallway.

A nurse he vaguely recognized appeared. Mrs. Romanov’s temp has spiked again—thirty-nine point one.

How long? The question came automatically from some forgotten box in his brain.

Half an hour ago according to her private nurse. She claims it’s hovered around thirty-seven for the past two hours.

Stupid, stupid, stupid nurse. You should’ve called me sooner.

Dr. Lund ordered us not to bother you.

Dr. Lund’s not her doctor. He’s a damned bureaucrat. Mogens stampeded down the hallway. Why was Lund even in her room? Did he notify her husband?

Jogging to keep up with him, the nurse said, I-I’m not sure.

How convenient. Furious at her stupidity or lies, he raced into Aliina’s room barking orders for an intravenous cold saline solution. Her normally pale skin was scarlet. Her respiration erratic.

What the hell’s going on? Sergei stood on the far side of the bed next to. Lund.

Focused on Aliina’s chart, Mogens snapped, Clear this room! Immediately. Christ, her temp had risen another half a degree.

I’m going nowhere. Sergei rocked back on his heels and bared his teeth.

Dr. Lund. Mogens jerked his thumb toward the door, then glared at the floor nurse. Where’s that damn saline? Get it here now.

She reached for the bedside phone.

Sergei. Lund tugged at the other man’s elbow.

I’m not leaving.

Mogens turned. He and Lund locked eyes.

We need to leave, Lund said. We’re in the way.

This is my wife. I’m going no—

CR-AAA-CK. Mogens’ open palm connected with Sergei’s cheek. Eyes wide, mouth agape, the bastard staggered backwards. Speechless, Lund stared. The slap of running feet echoed in the hallway.

Lund! This isn’t the railway station. This procedure requires my total concentration.

Lund must’ve recognized Mogens’ exaggeration, but he came out of his semi-catatonic state and pulled Sergei through the door just as the lab tech appeared. Mogens grabbed the bag of saline, pushed the door shut on the two men, and returned to Aliina’s side.

Don’t let anyone in here, he ordered the nurse.

Two hours later, Mogens dismissed the extra nurses and spent the next six hours by Aliina’s bed. Eyes glassy, respiration raspy, she was clinically conscious but uncommunicative. Neither Mogens nor the private nurse broke the silence.

Sooner or later, the silence would give way to chaos. Of that he was certain.

***

The last rays of the winter sun slithered through the half-closed blinds in Aliina’s room. Seated in the chair next to her bed, Mogens stretched his legs, yawned three times, and leaned over his knees before attempting to get to his feet. He resisted the urge to check his watch. He didn’t care what time it was. If he had his way, time would stop at that moment.

Christ, he was sick. He scraped his fingers through his greasy hair. He’d rather have Aliina bordering on comatose than awake as long as he got to stay by her side.

A prince. He was a damn prince pining for his princess.

Except he didn’t even get the benefit of waking her with a kiss.

He lurched to his feet and bumped the bed.

Aliina moaned softly.

Mogens cursed under his breath. He whispered, Sorry.

Her eyelids fluttered. Mogens?

Mogens The Graceful.

Her eyes opened—their blue