The men obey without question.
I try to tell her to get down, to protect herself and the baby, but words won’t come. Just blood in my mouth and her face above me, pale and terrified and furious.
“Don’t you dare,” she’s saying, hands pressing harder on the wound. “Don’t you fucking dare die on me. You promised—you promised you’d protect us—so stay alive—”
Then darkness takes me.
***
I wake to beeping machines and chemical-clean air.
Hospital. Private facility. Pain radiating from my left side despite whatever drugs they’ve pumped into me.
I see Elena, asleep in a chair pulled close to the bed, curled into an awkward position that can’t be comfortable. One hand rests protectively over the swell of her belly. The other grips my fingers like she’s afraid I’ll slip away if she lets go.
I try to squeeze back. The movement is weak, but it’s enough.
Her eyes fly open. “Aleksandr.”
“I’m here.” My voice is rough, barely audible. “I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay. You got shot. You almost died.” Tears stream down her face, no attempt to hide them. “The bullet missed your lung by centimeters. You lost so much blood—”
“I’m alive.”
“Because of Kevlar and luck and—” She’s shaking now. “Because you wouldn’t fucking die, even though you tried your best.”
Despite the pain, I almost smile. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”
“I know. I ignored orders. I had a feeling something was wrong, so I came anyway.” She grips my hand tighter.“You came to rescue me. Put yourself in danger, not knowing what could happen.”[16]
“Of course I did.”
“You could have died!” Her composure shatters completely. Tears, anger, fear all crashing out at once. “You could have died protecting me and left me alone and I can’t—I can’t do this without you—”
“Elena, we’re fine.”
“No, listen. I need you to hear this.” She leans closer, voice dropping to fierce whisper. “I can’t be without you. I tried to convince myself I could. That this was just survival or Stockholm syndrome or pregnancy hormones. It’s not. It’s real. You’re—” Her voice breaks. “You’re everything.”
I pull her close despite the pain it causes. Let her cry into my shoulder while I hold her with my good arm.
“I can’t be without you either,” I admit. “That’s why I stepped in front of you. Why I’ll always step in front of you. Losing you would destroy me more completely than any bullet could.”
She pulls back enough to look at me. “That’s insane. We’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“This whole thing is toxic and possessive and definitely not healthy.”
“I know.”
“I love you anyway.” The words come out choked, reluctant, undeniable. “God help me, I love you.”
The confession hits harder than the bullet did. She loves me. Despite everything—the force, the lies, the manipulation—she loves me.
“I love you too,” I tell her. “So much it terrifies me. So much I’d take a hundred bullets before I’d let one touch you.”
“Don’t.” She presses her hand to my face. “Don’t ever do that again. I need you alive. Our child needs you alive.”
