When they're finally satisfied that my injuries are superficial—abraded wrists, minor contusions, dehydration and exhaustion—the tone shifts. The doctor, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair, pulls up a stool and sits beside me.
"I understand you believe you may be pregnant," she says quietly. "Is that correct?"
I nod, my throat tight.
"How far along do you think you are?"
"Three weeks. Maybe four. I'm not sure exactly."
"And you've experienced symptoms? Nausea, fatigue?"
"Yes. Both."
She nods, making notes on her tablet. "We'll do a blood test to confirm, and then an ultrasound to check on the baby's development. Given what you've been through—the stress, the physical trauma, the sedation—we want to make sure everything is progressing normally."
The words hit me like a fist. Given what I've been through. The stress. The trauma. All the things that could have hurt the baby, could have ended the pregnancy before it really began.
"Is there a chance—" I can't finish the sentence.
"There's always a chance of complications," the doctor says gently. "But the fact that you haven't experienced any bleeding or severe cramping is a good sign. Let's take a look and see what we're dealing with."
She leaves to prepare the ultrasound equipment. I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling, my hand pressed against my stomach.
Please be okay. Please, please be okay.
Misha appears at my side. He doesn't say anything—just takes my hand and holds it, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. The gesture is surprisingly tender, at odds with the bloodstill staining his clothes and the violence that clings to him like a second skin.
"Whatever happens," he says quietly, "we'll deal with it together."
I look at him—really look at him, for the first time since the rescue. He's exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, lines of tension carved into his face. He's been through a war tonight, led an assault on a fortified compound, killed God knows how many people to get to me.
And now he's here, holding my hand, waiting to find out if the baby we accidentally created has survived.
"Are you scared?" I ask.
He's silent for a long moment. Then: "Terrified."
The honesty surprises me. Misha doesn't admit to fear. Misha doesn't admit to any emotion that might be perceived as weakness.
"Me too," I whisper.
His grip on my hand tightens.
The ultrasound technician is young, efficient, and blessedly silent.
She dims the lights, applies cold gel to my stomach, and presses the wand against my skin. The monitor beside the bed flickers to life, showing grainy black-and-white images that mean nothing to me.
I hold my breath. Beside me, Misha has gone completely still.
The technician moves the wand, adjusting angles, searching. The seconds stretch into eternity. I can hear my ownheartbeat pounding in my ears, can feel Misha's hand crushing mine, can sense the tension radiating off him in waves.
Then—
"There."
The technician points to the screen, to a small flutter in the center of the image. A tiny pulsing blob, barely visible, but unmistakably alive.
"That's the heartbeat," she says. "Strong and steady. About 120 beats per minute, which is normal for this stage of development."
