A heartbeat. The baby has a heartbeat.
The sound fills the room—a rapid whooshing that seems impossibly fast, impossibly fragile. The sound of life, persisting against all odds.
I can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't do anything but stare at that tiny flicker on the screen, that impossible miracle that survived captivity and sedation and violence and fear.
Beside me, Misha makes a sound I've never heard from him before. Something between a gasp and a groan, like he's been punched in the gut. I turn to look at him and find his eyes fixed on the monitor, his face stripped of all its usual armor.
He looks... shattered. Broken open. Like everything he thought he knew about himself has just been rearranged.
"That's our baby," I whisper.
He doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen, at that flickering heartbeat, his jaw tight and his eyes suspiciously bright.
The technician tactfully busies herself with measurements and notes, giving us a moment of privacy. I watchMisha watching our child, and something shifts in my chest. Something I'm not ready to name.
"Misha."
He tears his gaze away from the monitor, meets my eyes. The vulnerability in his expression takes my breath away. This is not the cold enforcer, the lethal commander, the man who killed his way through a compound to reach me. This is someone else entirely. Someone I'm only beginning to know.
"I don't know how to do this," he says. His voice is rough, barely audible. "I don't know how to be a father. I don't know how to be anything other than what I am."
"Neither do I." I reach up and touch his face, feeling the stubble beneath my fingers, the tension in his jaw. "But we have time to figure it out."
"Do we?" He catches my hand, presses it against his cheek. "My world isn't safe. You've seen that now. The Morozovs will want revenge. There will always be enemies, always be threats. What kind of life is that for a child?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I know that child exists, whether we planned it or not. And I know you came for me. You tore apart an entire compound to bring me back. That has to count for something."
He's silent for a long moment. Then he turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm—a gesture so gentle, so unexpected, that it makes my eyes sting with tears.
"It counts for everything," he murmurs against my skin.
***
The doctor returns with good news.
The baby is healthy. Development is on track for four weeks gestation. There's no sign of damage from the stress or the sedation. Barring complications, the pregnancy should proceed normally.
Normally. As if anything about this situation is normal.
She prescribes rest, prenatal vitamins, follow-up appointments. She tells me to avoid stress—a laughable suggestion, given my circumstances—and to listen to my body. She gives me pamphlets about nutrition and exercise and what to expect in the coming months.
I take them all, nod at all the right moments, and feel like I'm watching the conversation from very far away.
When she finally leaves, the room falls quiet. The monitors have been turned off, the equipment wheeled away. It's just me and Misha, alone in the dim light, the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on us.
"You should rest," he says.
"I know."
But I don't close my eyes. Instead, I look at him—this man who bought me at an auction, who lied to me for months, who killed for me and bled for me and held my hand while we listened to our baby's heartbeat.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now you sleep. Tomorrow, we go back to the estate. I'll have security upgraded, new protocols put in place. The Morozovs won't—"
"That's not what I mean." I push myself up on the pillows, ignoring the protest of my exhausted muscles. "I mean us. What happens to us?"
He's quiet for a long moment. The question hangs between us, heavy with everything we haven't said, everything we haven't figured out.
