At 2:30 AM, he orders standard post-trauma blood work: checking for shock, dehydration, stress hormones, electrolytes, infection markers. A nurse comes in to draw blood—three vials, labels written in precise handwriting.
"Results in thirty minutes," she says, disappearing with the samples.
Maksim's phone buzzes. He checks it, then shows me: text from Sergei.
With Natasha. Hydrating, recovering. Keeps asking for Sonya.
I reach for my phone immediately, dial the number Sergei sent.
It rings twice before Natasha answers, her voice groggy but alive. "Sonya?"
"I'm here. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry he took you because of me—"
She switches to Russian.
"Stop." Her voice is weak but firm. "You came for me. You saved me. That's what matters."
"Are you okay? Are they treating you well?"
"IV fluids, observation. They say I'll be fine." She pauses, switches back to English "Maksim's man—Sergei—he's been very kind. Explained everything. The rescue, the plan, how you—" Her voice catches. "You danced for him. To keep him distracted while they got me out."
"Of course I did."
"I knew you would. Even drugged, even terrified, I knew you'd come." She's quiet for a moment. "Can I—would it be okay if I stayed with you? Just until I recover? I don't want to go back to my apartment. Not yet."
Relief floods through me. "Yes. Please. Maksim has a mansion in Philadelphia. Guest rooms, security, whatever you need. Stay as long as you want."
"Thank you." I hear tears in her voice. "I'll see you soon?"
"Soon. Rest now. We'll come get you in a few hours."
The call ends. I lower the phone, exhausted but grateful.
"She's coming to stay with us," I tell Maksim.
"Good. Sergei will coordinate transport once the doctors clear her."
At 3:00 AM, Dr. Petrov returns with prescriptions—pain medication, anti-inflammatories, strict rest orders. "Blood work results in a few minutes. Standard panels look good. Checking the final tests now."
He leaves us alone in the exam room.
Maksim sits beside me on the exam table, holding my hand. The room is quiet except for the hum of medical equipment somewhere in the building.
"Anton's comment," I say quietly. "About pregnancy."
"I know."
"What if he's right?" I pause, needing to say it. "He escaped knowing I might be pregnant. He killed Elena when she was seven months along. He—"
"Stop." Maksim's grip tightens on my hand. "Anton is wounded, running. There's a federal manhunt active. We'll find him. And if you're pregnant, we protect you. Both of you."
"Both of us," I echo. The words feel strange. Impossible. Real.
At 3:30 AM, Dr. Petrov returns. His expression is neutral, professional.
"When was your last period?" he asks.
Maksim and I exchange glances. "Six weeks ago?" I say uncertainly. "Maybe? Why?"
