Page 84 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

I blink, my mind instantly throwing me back to the dark, misty slipway. I smell the wet wood of the pier. I smell the sharp, sulfur sting of the gunpowder, and I see the exact moment my father’s grey eyes went wide, vacant, and completely empty.

He’s gone.

My hand flies under the thin white sheet, my fingers clawing through the cotton of my hospital gown to press flat against my stomach. My skin is cool, my lower belly feeling tight, sore, and empty of any sharp, tearing pain. I hold my breath, my eyes closing as I wait for the physical confirmation that the fall, the blast, the chloroform, and the beating had taken the only piece of the future I have left.

Please. Just don't let the devil win this one.

The door to the room creaks open, the quiet rustle of rubber-soled shoes soft against the linoleum.

A nurse in blue scrubs steps into the room, carrying a clipboard. She’s middle-aged, her face kind but professional, her eyes softening as she sees my hand clutching my stomach, my chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps. She sets the clipboard on the bedside table, her fingers gently reaching out to touch my arm.

"Take a deep breath, Mrs. Kovalevskiia." Her hand is warm, her voice quiet and steady as she checks the digital readout on the monitor. "You’ve been sedated for thirty-six hours. Your body is still recovering from the shock, but you need to breathe."

My fingers tighten into the sheet. "The... the baby."

The nurse reaches for a small, handheld doppler unit resting on the lower shelf of the cart, applies a cold, clear gel to the plastic probe, and presses it gently against my lower abdomen.

A second later, the room is filled with a fast, rhythmic sound of a tiny, rapid heartbeat.

It sounds like a galloping horse in the quiet room, loud, strong, and completely real.

"The fetal heart rate is one hundred and forty-five," she says, wiping the gel from my skin with a clean towel. "The obstetrician checked you yesterday while you were sleeping. There’s no internal bleeding, no signs of placental distress. The child is completely safe."

M-My baby…

I let out a long, shuddering sob that tears through my raw throat. I cover my face with my left hand, the hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and running down my cheeks.

"Thank God," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Thank God."

She pulls the white blanket back up to my chest, her touch gentle. "Your father was a very brave man. The guards said he stood in the line of fire."

The mention of my father makes the grief return, a heavy, suffocating pressure that locks my throat. I look at the white ceiling, my mind tracing the creases around his eyes as he touched the mark on my neck. He died protecting me. He spent his entire life keeping me in a gilded cage, treating me like a transaction to be managed, but when the bullets started flying, he didn't run. He didn't use me as a shield. He took three rounds to the chest so I could draw my next breath.

I didn't even get to say goodbye. "Via?"

The voice is a small, quiet squeak near the doorway.

I turn my head quickly, my dislocated shoulder twinging with a sharp spike of pain. Ekaterina is standing in the threshold, her face clean, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She’s wearing a pair of clean grey sweatpants and a blue sweater that is slightly too big for her. Her wrists are wrapped in clean white bandages, but she is standing on her own feet, her dark eyes wide and wet with tears.

I stretch my left hand out, my arm trembling. "Ekaterina."

She runs across the linoleum, her boots silent, and throws her arms around my neck. She buries her face in my shoulder, her body shaking. I hold her tight, my fingers locking into the wool of her sweater, my chin resting on her head as we cling to each other in the quiet room.

"I was so scared," she whispers against my neck. "They wouldn't let me in here. The guards said you needed to sleep."

"I’m fine," I say, my hand gently stroking her hair, trying to find my strength for her, trying to be the adult in this ruined world. "I’m right here, Ekaterina. I’m not going anywhere."

"They... they took your dress," she says, pulling back slightly to look at my face, her fingers touching the split lip on my jaw. "It was covered in blood. My brother... my brother brought you in. He was carrying you, Via. He wouldn't let the medics touch you until they had a gurney in the hallway."

The mention of Ilya makes the room go completely still, the silence returning like a cold wave of water. I look past her shoulder at the nurse, who is suddenly very busy checking the IV lines on my cart, her face turning blank and unreadable.

"Where is he?" I ask, my voice dropping, the light tone vanishing as I look at her face.

The nurse doesn't look up from the monitor. "He is in the recovery wing, Mrs. Kovalevskiia. The doctors are monitoring his progress."

"Don't lie to me," I snap, my chin lifting as the old, stubborn sass returns, though my chest is starting to tighten with a new, terrifying dread. "I know how my husband looks when he’s fine. He doesn't let anyone 'monitor his progress' unless he’s unable to stand. Where is he?"

Ekaterina looks down at the floor, her fingers twisting the edge of her blue sweater, her lips trembling.