The monitor beeps. The machines breathe.
“I miss you. I miss you, and I’m terrified. I’ve been sitting in this chair telling myself you’re going to wake up because the doctor said you would, and you are the most stubborn man I have ever met in my life, and you would not — you wouldnot— survive a warehouse full of armed men only to?—”
My throat closes. I press my forehead against the mattress and breathe.
“You can’t leave me, Rolan. Not like this. Not after everything. Not after you made me fall in love with you. You do not get to do all of that and then?—”
I stop. My jaw tightens. My eyes burn.
“I love you, Rolan. Come back. Please.”
Silence.
The monitor beeps. The machines sustain their rhythms. The room offers nothing.
And then, so faint that I almost think it’s my own imagination, pressure. Barely perceptible. The slightest contraction of his fingers around mine, a tightening so subtle it might be involuntary, might be reflexive.
My breath catches. I lift my head, and my gaze travels from our interlaced hands to his face, and?—
His eyes are open. Not fully. Heavy-lidded, glazed with sedation and exhaustion. But they’re looking at me.
His lips part. The effort is visible.
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu.” A breath. And then, with the faintest shadow of a smile, “Moya koroleva.”
The tears I’ve been holding back for three days flood out.
“Rolan…” I can hardly believe it.
“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu. Moya koroleva.”
“I don’t understand,” I start to blubber. “What are you saying?”
“I said, I love you too, my queen.”
I want to climb onto this bed and wrap myself around him. Press my face into his neck and hold on until the trembling stops. But the fear of hurting him and ruining this miracle holds me back.
So, I stand and lean over him instead, carefully pressing my lips to his.
His hand rises, slowly, trembling from the effort, and his fingers graze my jaw. The touch is featherlight and imprecise, but it’s his touch, and when I pull back, his eyes are still open and still focused on my face.
I press the call button beside his bed.
“Don’t move,” I tell him.
I keep his hand in mine as the medical team arrives.I don’t let go during the entire examination. And when the doctor asks me to step outside, I inform him as politely as possible that I will not be going fucking anywhere.
Two days later, Anya is allowed to visit.
I tell her that her Papa is improving, that the bruises look worse than they really are, that his body needs time, the way gardens need time to recover after winter, and that patience is the most important medicine she can offer him.
In the afternoon, when Rolan is upright against the headboard and the color has begun to return to his face, I bring her in.
She halts in the doorway.
“Papa,” she whispers.
“Come here,malaya.”
