Page 130 of Secret Heir

“Shh, it’s okay. You don’t need to remember.” Maksim leans over the bed despite the obvious agony in his ribs. I can see him biting back a grimace of pain, but he presses his forehead gently to Daniel’s, his hand cupping the back of our son’s head. “Papa won’t let anything happen to you ever again. I promise. Do you believe me?”

Daniel’s small hand reaches up, his arm trembling with the effort and touches Maksim’s face. His fingers are cold and small against Maksim’s stubbled jaw like he needs to confirm his father is real.

“I believe you, Papa.”

Papa. Such a simple word loaded with all the trust a child can give to someone. The word has always belonged to him and it’s been waiting all this time for Daniel to be ready to say it.

I’m watching them together with Maksim’s forehead pressed to Daniel’s, both of them crying. Maksim’s hand is so gentle on the back of Daniel’s head while Daniel’s small fingers touch his father’s face—and I’m sobbing so hard I can barely breathe.

Because I know what this moment means. This is Daniel letting go of his fear and choosing to trust again, to love again, to believe that Maksim won’t leave him.

This is the moment my son fully claims his father.

Maksim is still crying, his forehead still pressed to Daniel’s, and he’s whispering in Russian. I catch fragments and, even though it’s been years, I can still understand what Maksim is saying even if I don’t understand the words—my son, I love you, I’ll never leave.

Daniel’s other hand finds mine, his small fingers wrapping around my thumb like he used to do when he was a baby.

“Mama, don’t cry,” he whispers weakly. “I’m okay now. Papa’s here. You’re here. I’m okay.”

Hearing the certainty in his small voice even after everything he’s been through, I let myself believe it.

My son is going to be okay.

We’re all going to be okay.

Over the next few days, Daniel physically recovers. The doctors run tests and check his reflexes, his cognitive function, and his memory. They monitor his heart, lungs, liver and kidneys.

Everything comes back clear. There’s no permanent damage or cognitive deficits. His heart is strong and his lungs are clear. His organs are functioning normally.

It’s a miracle, Dr. Petrov says, his kind eyes warm with relief. If they’d waited even five more minutes to treat him, if the convulsions had lasted any longer, if his heart had stopped one more time—the outcome would have been very different.

But while Daniel’s body heals, his mind is still wounded.

The nightmares start the first night he’s off the ventilator.

I’m dozing in the chair beside his bed when I hear him screaming like he’s being murdered.

“Papa! Mama! I can’t breathe! Help me, I can’t⁠—”

Maksim and I are both on him in seconds. Maksim gathers Daniel into his arms, pulling him against his chest and I stroke Daniel’s hair, my other hand on his back, both of us talking over each other trying to calm him.

“You’re okay, solnyshko. You’re okay. You’re safe. It was just a dream.”

“I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. You’re not dying. You’re right here with us. You’re safe.”

“Papa, I couldn’t breathe!” Daniel is sobbing, his small body shaking violently. “I was trying to breathe but I couldn’t and you weren’t there and Mama wasn’t there and I was alone and I was dying⁠—”

“You’re not dying. You’re right here with us,” Maksim says fiercely. He presses Daniel’s hand to his chest. “Feel Papa’s heartbeat? I’m here and I’m never leaving you. You’re stuck with me, Danya.”

“Promise?” Daniel’s voice is so small and broken it brings fresh tears to my eyes.

Maksim presses his lips to Daniel’s forehead and closes his eyes, pain on his features at our son’s emotional turmoil. “I promise. On my life, I promise.”

It takes twenty minutes to calm him down by holding and rocking him, reassuring him that he’s safe and nobody’s going to hurt him.

And it happens again the next night. And the next.

He won’t eat anything he didn’t see being prepared. When the nurses bring him meals, he refuses to touch them. He stares at the tray with terror in his eyes.