“Elena?” Aleksandr’s voice is strained.
“I can do this.” I grab his wrist, force him to look at me instead of the monitors. “I can. Just stay with me. Don’t leave.”
“Never.” His hand tightens on mine. “I’m right here.”
Another contraction. Worse than before. I scream through it, not caring who hears, just needing the release.
When it passes, I hear Aleksandr speaking sharply to Dr. Kuzmin. “What’s happening? Why is it taking so long?”
“Labor progresses at its own pace.”
“That’s not an answer. Is she safe? Is the baby safe?”
“Mr. Sharov, I need you to calm down.”
“Answer the question!”
His fear is breaking through. The control he maintains so carefully splintering under the reality that he can’t force this, can’t threaten or negotiate or buy a faster resolution.
I grab his face with both hands despite the pain. Force him to focus on me instead of the doctors.
“Aleksandr. Look at me. Just me.”
His eyes meet mine. Wild. Terrified.
“I need you calm,” I say, voice shaking but firm. “I need you here with me, not fighting doctors. Can you do that?”
He takes a shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”
“Then stay. Just stay.”
He nods. Settles back beside me, hand gripping mine so tight it’s almost painful.
We survive the next two hours together. Him grounding me through contractions. Me grounding him when fear makes him sharp with the medical team.
Finally—finally—Dr. Kuzmin says the words I’ve been desperate to hear.
“Ten centimeters. It’s time to push.”
Pushing is agony unlike anything I’ve experienced.
They tell me when to push, when to breathe, when to rest. The instructions blur together. All I know is pain and pressure and Aleksandr’s voice in my ear telling me I can do this, I’m strong, I’m almost there.
“I can’t.” I sob between pushes. “I changed my mind, I can’t do this.”
“You can. You are. Just a little more.”
“I can’t!”
“Elena.” He grips my face, forces me to meet his eyes. “You’re the strongest person I know. You survived me. You survived the Bratva. You can survive this. Our son needs you. I need you. So push.”
I push.
Again. And again. Until I’m screaming with effort, until everything narrows to pain and desperate need to get this baby out.
“The head is crowning. One more push, Mrs. Sharov. One more.”
I push with everything I have left.
