"Yes," Kira answers. "He's our father. What's his condition?"
"Critical but stable for now. He has multiple broken ribs, and significant internal bleeding. Concussion. We're taking him into surgery immediately." He pauses and I know what’s coming. "I need to be honest with you—the next few hours are crucial. It's going to be rough."
"But he'll survive?" Anya's voice trembles.
"We're going to do everything we can." It's not the reassurance we want, but it's all he can give. "A nurse will come get you when we have updates. The next twenty-four hours will tell us more. The head injury—well, we don’t know how bad it is. There’s a lot of swelling."
He disappears through the same doors that swallowed Kira's father.
"Maksim." Kira's hand finds mine. "You need to get checked out. Please."
"After you."
"I'm fine."
"You're pregnant and went through something traumatic."
"Which is exactly why you need to be functional." Her grip tightens. "I need you alive and healthy. Our baby needs you. So stop being stubborn and let a doctor look at that leg."
Anya leans forward. "She's right. And while you're getting checked out, we'll make sure Kira sees an OB. Make sure the baby is okay."
"Okay," I concede. "But I'm not leaving this floor. The second you go into an exam room; I want to be there."
"Deal."
A nurse appears—different from before, older, with kind eyes. "Are any of you injured?"
"He is." Kira points at me. "Gunshot wound to the leg."
"And she is," I add. "Pregnant. Needs to be checked out. Smoke inhalation."
The nurse's eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't comment on our condition. Working ER in Moscow, she's probably seen worse.
"Let's get you both looked at," she says. "Follow me."
We're led to an exam room. I follow Kira. She glares at me.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to make sure you’re okay,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re so stubborn.”
The nurse doesn’t look any happier with me but says nothing.
Kira sits on the exam table.
A doctor enters maybe ten minutes later. She introduces herself and immediately starts asking questions. I can tell she’s in a rush, which pisses me off. She needs to be focused on my woman. My baby.
"How far along are you?"
"About six weeks," Kira answers.
"Any bleeding? Cramping?"
"No bleeding. Some cramping earlier, but I think that was stress."
"Any previous pregnancies?"
