The rest of Friday is quiet. Complete rest for Sonya, as ordered. Alexei and I handle foundation coordination calls while Mila keeps Sonya company, the two women talking quietly about pregnancy fears and futures.
By Friday evening at 8:00 PM, Sonya is exhausted but stable. Alexei and Mila retire to their guest suite, giving us privacy.
Sonya is in bed, exhausted. I lie beside her, careful not to jostle her, watching her breathe.
"I thought we lost them," she whispers.
"Me too."
"When I saw the blood, all I could think was Elena. Anton wins. He kills this baby like he killed hers."
"But he didn't. The baby is fine. You're fine."
She turns to face me, eyes wet. "I need to feel you. Both of you. Alive and here and real."
I understand what she's asking. "The doctor said rest—"
"I need you inside me. Need to feel you alive. Please."
I can't deny her. Can't deny myself.
I help her out of her sleeping clothes carefully. She's naked beneath me, nine weeks pregnant, still bleeding slightly, terrified and desperate and needing life affirmation.
I undress slowly, position myself over her with extreme care.
"Tell me if anything hurts. If you need me to stop."
"I will. Just—please."
I enter her slowly, barely moving. Not sex for pleasure. Sex for survival. For affirmation. For proving we're both alive, the baby is alive, life continues despite Anton's threats.
I stay still inside her, just connected. My hand on her small bump, feeling where our child grows.
"I love you," I whisper to her stomach. "Both of you. You're safe. You're protected. You're alive."
She's crying silently, tears sliding into her hair.
We don't move much. Don't thrust or chase climax. Just stay connected, proving we're here, we survived, life continues.
When we do finally move—slow, careful, barely more than breathing together—it's sacred. Not sexual. Life-affirming.
I finish inside her quietly, marking her as mine, marking us both as alive. She doesn't climax but doesn't need to. This wasn't about pleasure.
After, we lie connected, my hand on her bump, her tears drying.
"Anton sent that ultrasound to scare us," she says. "To make us fear for the baby. To control us through terror."
"He failed. We're still here. The baby is still here."
We fall asleep still connected, her hand over mine on her stomach, both of us holding onto life in the face of death threats.
The finale is coming.
And this time, we'll be ready.
Chapter nineteen
Bed Rest
