Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

"Oh my god — are you okay? Did I say something wrong?!"

Mia was off her chair before I could answer. She was crouching right next to me, hands hovering in the air, not sure where to put them.

I couldn’t talk.

I pressed my wrist against my eyes and tried to breathe. One breath. Two. The soup was still in the bowl in front of me. My hands were wrapped in clean gauze. My feet were in borrowed socks that were way too soft for how bad my day had been.

Everything was warm. Everything was quiet.

I was completely falling apart.

"Irina." Her voice went soft. "Hey. Look at me."

I looked at her.

Her face was close. Still a little mascara-smeared from earlier. Her eyes were wide and genuinely worried, the kind of worried that you can’t fake.

"What happened?" she asked. "Did something hurt?"

"No." My voice came out terrible. "You didn’t do anything. It’s not you."

"Then why are you crying?"

I exhaled.

"Because nobody’s ever done this before," I said.

She blinked. "Done what?"

I looked around the kitchen. The soup. The socks. The gauze. The warm light. "This. Any of this." My voice cracked somewhere in the middle. "People don’t just take someone home and feed them. Nobody does that. Not to me. Not ever."

Mia stared at me.

She didn’t say anything for a second.

Then she sat down on the floor.

Just like that. Cross-legged on the kitchen tile, right next to my chair, like she’d decided she was staying a while.

"Okay," she said. "I need to ask you something."

I wiped my eyes. "What."

"Are you running from someone?"

Clean question. No judgment.

"Yes," I said.

"Is he dangerous?"

I laughed. It came out broken. "You have no idea."

She nodded slowly. "Is he the father?"

My hands moved to my stomach without thinking. I didn’t answer out loud.

She made a face.

"Ugh." She said it with real feeling. "Ugh, of course he is."

I almost laughed again. Almost.

She leaned forward on her knees and looked up at me with this very serious expression.

"Okay listen. I need you to promise me something."

"Mia—"

"No, listen." She pointed at me. An actual finger point. "That man."

She kept the finger up. "Promise me you’re not going back to him. Promise me. Right now. Out loud."

"It’s complicated—"

"Irina." She gave me a look. "It is never not complicated. That is what they always say. He’s complicated, you don’t understand him, he’s not always like this." She tilted her head. "Am I wrong?"

I looked at the table.

She wasn’t wrong.

Even sitting here, warm and fed and safe, some part of my brain kept going back to the way he’d said my name in the dark. The way he’d looked in that hospital bed, color finally coming back into his face.

I shoved it down.

"It doesn’t matter," I said. "I left. I’m not going back."

"Good." She said it immediately. Simply. Like it was the only correct answer and she was glad I’d arrived at it. "He sounds absolutely terrible."

"He’s—" I stopped.

She raised her eyebrows.

"Complicated," I said.

"You literally just said it doesn’t matter."

"It doesn’t."

"Okay so he’s terrible. Moving on." She stood up off the floor, brushed off her knees, and dropped back into her chair like nothing had happened. "Eat your soup."

"I finished it."

She looked at the empty bowl. "Oh." A pause. "Do you want more?"

I shook my head. I didn’t trust my voice right then.

She looked at me for a second.

Then she got up, went to the stove, and ladled more soup into my bowl anyway.

"Just in case," she said.

---

I ate the second bowl too.

Mia sat across from me and talked. About her roommate. About the gap year program. About how she’d called her mom from the elevator on the way up and her mom had said *of course, bring her in* before Mia had even finished explaining.

"She’s always like that," Mia said. "I used to bring home stray cats when I was little. She never said no. Once I brought home an actual injured crow."

"A crow."

"His name was Potato. He lived with us for two months." She stirred her own soup. "Dad was less thrilled about Potato."

I was almost smiling. Almost.

When I set the spoon down the second time, I sat there for a moment and looked at the table.

"I need to find a job," I said.

Mia opened her mouth.

"I’m serious," I said before she could argue. "I can’t stay here. Tonight was — tonight I needed tonight. But tomorrow I need a real plan. A real place." I looked at her. "I tried all day and everything fell through. But I’ll try again. I know how to work. I just need someone to give me a chance without asking for papers I don’t have."

Mia looked at me for a second.

Then she turned her head toward the hallway.

"Mom!"

Footsteps. Her mother appeared in the doorway, still holding her mug. She looked at Mia, then at me.

"She needs a job," Mia said. "She’s pregnant so it has to be something real. And she doesn’t have papers yet."

Her mother looked at me.

I made myself hold eye contact.

"What kind of work have you done?" she asked.

I thought about the past year. Everything I’d learned to do in a pack house when you were the lowest person in it. Watching. Noticing. Anticipating. Sitting with people who were hurt and making sure they didn’t get worse.

And the other thing. The thing I still didn’t fully understand.

"I’ve helped with medical care," I said carefully. "Informal. No credentials. But I assisted with wound care, monitoring, sitting with patients." I paused. "I notice when something’s wrong. Before other people do, usually."

She looked at me differently then. Still careful. But more focused.

"I run a private clinic," she said. "Women’s health, general practice, walk-in. We’re short-staffed right now. I need someone who can sit with patients, keep them calm, catch things." A pause. "The paperwork can be sorted over time."

I stared at her.

She set her mug in the sink.

"Sleep tonight. We can talk details in the morning." She paused at the door. "Both of you need rest."