19. Sasha
19
SASHA
The path has turned to soup beneath our feet. Each step threatens to slide out from under us as rain lashes sideways, turning the world into goopy smears of gray and green. My bullet wound pounds with every movement, but I can’t focus on that. Not when she’s storming ahead in that fucking sundress, hair plastered to her neck
I watch her slip on the muddy path again, my hands twitching with the need to steady her. But I can’t. Won’t. Not after what just happened in the springs.
The kiss haunts me with each step. Because it was so easy to do. She melted against me, her lips soft and yielding, and for as long as it lasted, I fooled myself into thinking that maybe it wouldn’t ever stop.
But it did. Of course it did.
You lost the right to touch me when you lied.
She’s right. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to try again. To explain. To make her understand that everything I did—every lie, every manipulation—was to keep her safe.
The rain whips harder, and I see her stumble once more. Before I can stop myself, the words tear free:
“Marry me.”
Ariel freezes mid-step, her back going rigid. The storm howls around us, but all I can hear is my own pulse thundering in my ears.
“Marry me,” I say again.
Ariel whirls, eyes volcanic. “Are you insane ?” Lightning cracks the sky. I reach for her elbow; she jerks free. “I don’t need your fucking proposals, Sasha. I need?—”
“What?” I bare my teeth. “Penance? Blood? Say it and it’s yours, Ariel.”
A gust nearly knocks her sideways. She scrambles for balance. “I need you to stop lying! To stop pretending this is about anything but your own ego!”
“Then take the deal!” My roar startles birds from the trees. “Let me keep you safe, provide for the children?—”
“I don’t want your kind of safety!” Her scream shreds the downpour.
Thunder groans. Her sandal slips. I grab her waist before the mud claims her.
“Don’t touch me,” she hisses.
But I can’t release her. Not when her pulse races under my palm. Not when the pink flush from the springs still paints her collarbones so prettily.
“You don’t get to force me into exile, then waltz back in like some savior.” She shoves hard enough to stagger us both. “You don’t get to play house now that the world’s on fire.”
“No one is playing anything. This isn’t a game.” I snap her against me, noses nearly touching. “Every hour we waste fighting, Dragan’s sniffing closer.”
Her lips part—God, those lips—but I don’t kiss her again. Can’t.
“So marry me, Ariel,” I rasp again. Begging. Pathetic. “Let me fix this.”
“You can’t fix you .” Her breath hitches. Raindrops cling to her lashes like diamonds. “You’re still that scared boy choking on his father’s lies. You think a ring changes that?”
I don’t answer. She wrenches free.
“Watch your step,” I snarl at her retreating back.
“Or what? You’ll ship me off for fifteen years, too? You’ll tell Jas I’m dead? You’ll?—”
It happens in fragments.
Her foot hits a slick patch of stone. Her ankle rolls. A gasp tears from her throat as her arms windmill outward.
My body moves before the scream even leaves her lips. Mud sucks at my boots as I lunge, arm outstretched. Stupid. Stupid. It all hurts so fucking bad. My ribs scream like rusted hinges, muscles tearing where bullets tried to carve me open months ago.
I swear I catch her. For one tortured second, her scent floods me—peaches and panic. Then momentum betrays us both. What started as an attempt to save her turns into me knocking her further off-balance. White fireworks explode behind my eyes as catch becomes shove. She goes down hard and slams into the mud with a wet crunch .
“Ariel!”
The sound she makes when she hits the ground will haunt me forever. A sharp cry of pain that cuts through the rain and goes straight to my core.
She curls into herself immediately, both hands clutching her stomach. Rain sheets down her pallid face. Her sundress rides up, streaked with filth and something dark. Blood? Mud? I can’t tell. My vision tunnels. Every scar on my body burns.
“No, no, no…” The words spill from me like a prayer as I drop to my knees beside her. Mud soaks through my pants, but I barely notice. All I can see is her face contorted in pain, the way her fingers dig into the swell of our children. “Ariel, look at me. Where does it hurt?”
She flinches when I reach for her. Her free hand fists in my soaked shirt. “They— I felt them kick. Hard. Sasha?—”
I freeze. I’m twelve years old again, crouching over Mama’s body on the pavement, wondering how to put her back together. History isn’t repeating—it’s rhyming, vicious and mocking.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I tell her, already shifting to gather her in my arms. “Hold onto me.”
This time, she doesn’t argue.
The steering wheel creaks under my grip. Rain hammers the Peugeot’s roof like gunfire. I floor the accelerator, tires hydroplaning through a curve, as Ariel’s whimper grates at my ears.
“Almost there,” I lie.
Her knees press against the dashboard, hands splayed over her stomach. Every ragged breath kills me. I should’ve carried her down the hill. Should’ve let her rip my eyes out rather than risk this.
Stupid. Reckless. Weak.
“They’re moving. I think—maybe it’s okay?”
I glance over. Rainwater streaks through the mascara pooling beneath her eyes. Her sundress clings to the curve where our children grow. Alive.
For now.
The next bend comes too fast. We skid. Ariel’s head snaps toward me—green eyes wide, lips parted in a silent scream. My healing ribs scream as I wrench the wheel. Gravel pings against the undercarriage, but we straighten back out and keep charging down the road.
A contraction? Spasm? Whatever it is, her body seizes.
No. No no no.
I stomp the gas. The engine wails. Ariel’s fingers dig into her thighs, blunt nails tearing holes in soaked cotton.
“Talk to them.” The words rip free before I can choke them back. “They know your voice.”
Her sob shreds what’s left of my composure. “I can’t—I don’t know what to?—”
“Anything.” I swerve around a lumbering tractor. “Please.”
A shaky inhale. Then, barely audible over the storm: “Hey, little loves. It’s Mama.”
My throat clots. She’s never called herself that before.
“You’re giving me gray hairs already, you know that?” Her palm circles slowly. “But that’s okay. We’re okay. Just… hold on, yeah? Just a little longer.”
A guttural noise escapes me. Ariel’s gaze flicks up, tracking the tear I don’t bother to hide.
The hospital materializes through the downpour—a concrete monstrosity crowned with flickering red letters: Pronto Soccorso .
I mount the curb beside ambulances, doors flying open before the car fully stops.
She tries saying something, but I’m already lifting her. Her arms loop around my neck, forehead pressed to my jugular. Blood smears my collar. Hers? Mine? Doesn’t matter.
The automatic doors hiss open. A nurse shouts in rapid-fire Italian. I follow the gurney they shove under us, refusing to release her hand even when they try to pry me away.
Until, finally, we reach the exam room. I can’t go any farther. I can’t save her now; only they can.
“Ariel.”
She turns her head on the sterile pillow. Tears carve paths through the dirt on her cheeks. “Don’t you dare leave me, Sasha Ozerov.”
“I won’t,” I vow to her. “I never will again.”
The doors swing shut in my face.
My reflection in the glass shows a wild-eyed stranger—hair matted with rain and blood, shirt clinging to half-healed scars. I press my palm to the cool surface. Somewhere beyond it, my heart beats in three bodies.
Just like that, the waiting begins.