Gustav pulls me into the safest hold he can manage without hurting me.
“Doctor says the baby is well.” His face buries into my hair and he speaks with deep sincerity. “It must have happened at the pool. A miracle.”
“A miracle,” I repeat under my breath, breathless. So much for the pill, though this news is so fresh, I might be happy it failed… I’m not unhappy.
“I was terrified our child would never know you. I tried to keep you warm. Keep you comfortable. Keep you alive.”
More tears fall. His or mine, I can’t tell. Everything hurts, but none of it matters. I curl my fingers around his and press his hand more firmly to my belly.
“I’m here,” I whisper, and add with sincerity, “I’m here for both of you.”
And for the first time since leaving the United States, I feel home.
Chapter 46
Peighton
The first day after waking is a surreal dream. A slow one. A quiet one.
Breakfast feels warmer than before my coma, considering the Russian summer glows at the windows.
Outside the windows, the world is actually green. Not gray, frozen, or threatening. Slopes of grass ripple in the breeze. The trees are full and lush, veils of leaves shifting softly instead of clawing the sky with bare branches. Sunlight glints off the river in the distance. Birds sing. It looks almost normal. If I squint, I can pretend this is some old European estate and not the headquarters of a Bratva dynasty led by my unhinged husband.
Tyra pours tea. Keira slices fruit with that delicate, elegant precision she always has.
I sit between them, wrapped in one of Gustav’s robes. It still smells faintly like body wash and the dark cologne he wears. The scent makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t fully understand yet. He isn’t here, but somehow he still shadows every part of this room. Like his love endures in his absence.
“Gustav took care of you better than anyone could have expected. He barely slept. He stayed by your bedside every night, watching, waiting, almost daring death to try him.”
I picture him sitting in that stiff chair for hours, his massive frame hunched, broad shoulders curled forward as if protecting something precious. It’s such a contrast from the man the world sees. The Mad Butcher, the ruthless heir. To me, he is simply Gustav, the man whose scent clings to my skin and steadies me without meaning to.
“He did,” says Keira. “A good husband, no?”
I nod.
Keira looks tired. More fragile than I remember. I bet the forest attack, those awful men, scarred her for life.
I set down my spoon and speak with compassion in my voice.
“It was horrible in Pripyat. That forest… to be stripped bare in front of so many men—”
She freezes, her face going pale beneath her immaculate makeup. She blinks, then lowers her gaze, as if modesty and memory both strike at once.
Tyra reaches over to squeeze her hand, giving her strength to speak. Slowly, Keira does.
“It was the worst moment of my life,” she says softly. “Humiliating. Terrifying. Their leader… when he touched my body… I thought I would die there.”
My heart cracks. A tear rolls down my cheek.
She dabs her own watery eyes with a napkin.
“Petyr died from his injuries,” she almost whispers. “He bled out in the car.”
“Oh my gosh! I didn’t know,” I reply and pull her into a hug.
She stiffens at first. Russian women don’t show their pain so easily, but she melts a little, and that tiny softening is enough to break my own heart.
“I pray I won’t be forced to remarry,” Keira whispers.
