Heavy footsteps.
Metal chains rattling loudly.
Boots striking the tile with authority.
My heart skipped.
Ruslan.
He appeared in the doorway flanked by four burly correction officers.
His wrists were shackled.
Chains connected to his waist.
Leg irons forced controlled, measured steps.
He looked thinner.
Harder.
Prison had stripped away some of the raw power he once carried effortlessly — but it hadn’t erased his presence.
His dark eyes scanned the room instantly.
They landed on me first.
Then moved.
Falling slowly.
Deliberately.
To the warming table.
To the tiny figure wrapped in white.
To our daughter.
“Elena...”
His voice cracked — rough from disuse or emotion, maybe both.
The chains clinked as he tried to step forward.
“I tried to get here sooner.”
His jaw tightened.
“Paperwork. Approvals. Security clearance. They dragged it out on purpose.”
His gaze never left the baby.
The senior nurse finished bathing her and wrapped her in fresh warm blankets.
She lifted the newborn carefully.
Ruslan saw.
