She didn't suggest it again.
The ultrasound showed what the medic had already told us: the baby was fine. A tiny flutter of movement on the screen, a heartbeat that filled the room with its rapid rhythm. I watched Vasily's face as he stared at the monitor—the way his expression shifted from tension to wonder to something softer than I'd ever seen from him.
"Healthy," the doctor confirmed. "Strong heartbeat, good development for this stage. Whatever trauma you experienced, it doesn't appear to have affected the pregnancy."
I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding.
"She needs rest," the doctor continued, addressing Vasily as though he were the one in charge. "No stress, no exertion. I'd recommend staying overnight for observation—"
"No." Vasily's voice left no room for argument. "She's not staying here. I have facilities that can monitor her. She'll be more comfortable there."
The doctor looked like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. "As you wish. But any concerning symptoms—bleeding, cramping, dizziness—you bring her back immediately."
"Understood."
We left the hospital an hour later, slipping out a back entrance into a waiting car. Athens glittered around us as we drove—ancient ruins and modern high-rises, a city that had survived empires and wars and still stood. I watched it pass through the tinted windows, feeling disconnected from all of it.
The safe house was a penthouse in a building that Vasily apparently owned. High ceilings, marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Acropolis. Beautiful, expensive, completely meaningless to me.
All I wanted was a shower and a bed and him beside me.
"The staff has been dismissed," Vasily said as we entered. "We're alone. No one will disturb us."
I nodded, too exhausted to respond.
"The bedroom is through there. I'll have food sent up in an hour."
"I don't want food. I want—" I stopped, not sure what I wanted. Everything felt too big, too much. "I need to wash. Get this off me."
I gestured vaguely at myself—the dirt, the dried blood on my wrists from the zip ties, the memory of hands grabbing me, dragging me, binding me.
"Of course." He guided me through the penthouse to a bathroom larger than my old New York apartment. White marble, a shower that could fit six people, fluffy towels stacked on heated racks. "Take your time. I'll be right outside."
"No." The word came out sharper than I intended. "Stay. Please."
He hesitated, something flickering in his eyes. "Are you sure?"
"I don't want to be alone." The admission felt like weakness, but I was too tired to care. "I can't—I don't want to be away from you right now."
"Then I'll stay."
The water was hot enough to turn my skin pink.
I stood under the spray, letting it pound against my shoulders, washing away the grime and fear. Vasily had undressed and joined me—not for anything sexual, just to be close. He stood behind me, his hands moving gently over my arms, my back, checking the injuries the doctors had already cataloged.
"The cut on your throat is shallow," he murmured, his fingers tracing the thin red line. "It won't scar."
"I don't care about scars."
"I care." His voice was rough. "Every mark on your body—every bruise, every scratch—I put them there. By bringing you into my world. By making you a target."
"You saved me." I turned to face him, water streaming down both our bodies. "You came for me, Vasily. That's what matters."
"I should have been there. Should never have left."
"Then Pankratov would have attacked anyway, and you might have died defending the island." I pressed my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "This way, we both survived. The baby survived. Pankratov is dead. It's over."
"It's over," he repeated, as if testing the words.
