But she’s already gone, unconscious in my arms, her breathing shallow but steady.
73
Bella
Sound slips in first—low, muffled, like I’m underwater. Voices. Footsteps. The beep of a monitor. I can’t quite catch the words, but one voice breaks through the fog, clear and raw.
“Is she okay?”
Konstantin. I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Yes, she is. And the baby is stable,” Dr. Katya says. “But she needs rest, Mr. Belov. You, too. You haven’t slept since —”“I don’t need sleep,” he says, cutting her off, his voice closer now. “I need to know she’s okay.”A sigh. “I’ll be back to check on her soon. Try to get some rest.” I hear the door click shut, the sound sharp and final. The room goes quiet, except for the steady beep of the monitor and the rasp of Konstantin’s breathing.
I try to open my eyes, but the weight of them pulls me back down. It’s like my eyelids are lined with lead. I want to sink back into the darkness, let it swallow me whole. It would be so easy. So warm.
His hand is warm, wrapped around mine. Not letting go.
I try to squeeze back, but my fingers don’t obey, and it’s tempting to slip away again. Just for a little while longer.
But then his thumb strokes over my knuckles, rough and tender at once, and I can’t stay under. Not when he’s right here, holding me like he’s afraid to let go.
I force my eyes open. Light slices through the room, too bright, too sharp. I squint, the ceiling coming into focus. White. Sterile. The sick wing. Again.
“Bella?”
His face looms over me, shadowed and unshaven, and somehow, even the exhaustion makes him look hotter—more rugged, more dangerous. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and the skin beneath them is smudged with exhaustion, the kind that only makes him look more savage and raw.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice a dry rasp.
Relief transforms his face, softening the hard edges I’ve grown so accustomed to. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, the touch unexpectedly gentle.
“Water?” I whisper.
He reaches for a glass on the bedside table, supporting my head as I take small sips through a straw. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat.
“How long…” I ask when I can speak more clearly.
“Forty-eight hours,” he says, setting the glass aside but not moving away. “Your body’s been through hell.”
“The baby—”
“Is fine,” he interrupts, his hand finding mine again. “Healthy. Strong.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Stubborn, like its mother.”
I try to smile back, but suddenly, tears are welling up, spilling over before I can stop them.
“The children? Julian? Lila?”
“All safe,” he assures me, thumb brushing away my tears with surprising tenderness. “No injuries. They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
His voice is softer, a rasp of emotion that wasn’t there before. And it’s all too much—the warmth of his touch, the gentleness in his eyes, the tenderness that has no business coming from a man like him.
“You… you should’ve told me,” he says, voice thick.
I pause. He is talking about… our baby.
“But I thought you didn’t… you didn’t want this,” I whisper.
Something dark and haunted flickers across his face.
