26. Lacey
26
LACEY
Megan and Dad are waiting outside the makeshift operating room Dr. Chen set up. My hands are still trembling from what happened downstairs. The metallic weight of Vadim's gun lingers in my grip even though I'm no longer holding it.
Dad reaches for my bandaged hand as I sit beside him. His familiar warmth steadies me somewhat, though he hasn't spoken a word since we brought him to Pankration. I squeeze back, grateful that despite his condition, he can still sense when his daughters need comfort.
"Any news?" Megan asks, her voice tight with worry.
I shake my head, unable to form words yet. The weight of the gun is in my head again, and so is the image of Sayanaa's taunting smile.
"Lacey? What's wrong?" Megan's hand finds my other one. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I..." My voice cracks. "I almost did something terrible, Meg. Something I could never take back."
The tears I've been holding back finally spill over. "I wanted to kill her. I wanted to make her pay for everything she's done to us. To Irina. To Freddy. I had Vadim's gun in my hand and I..."
A sob escapes me. "I couldn't do it. But God help me, I wanted to."
Dad's grip tightens on my hand. Though he doesn't speak, his thumb strokes my knuckles in that same soothing pattern he used when I was little and scared of thunderstorms.
"Oh, Lacey." Megan pulls me into a hug. "That doesn't make you terrible. It makes you human."
"I'm scared, Meg," I whisper against her shoulder. "Scared of what this life is turning me into."
"The fact that you're this torn up about it proves you're still you," Megan whispers, pulling back to look me in the eyes. "The old Lacey who'd cry over a wounded bird, and who stayed up all night with Mom during her chemo treatments. She's still in there. This life didn't erase that."
My hands ball into fists. "But I wanted to hurt someone, Meg. I wanted to make Sayanaa suffer."
"But you didn't ." Megan's voice is firm. "That's what matters. And you know why? Because Vadim was there to stop you. To protect you from crossing that line."
A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks as I remember the way he'd gently lowered my trembling hand, the understanding in his storm-gray eyes.
"He knew exactly what killing someone would do to you," Megan continues. "That's love, Lacey. Real love means stopping the person you care about from making terrible mistakes, even when they think they want to make them."
"But what if—" I start, but Megan cuts me off.
"No more what-ifs. You can't torture yourself about things that didn't happen. The only thing that matters is what you actually did. And what you did was choose to walk away. Yes, you came close to that line, but you never crossed it."
With a choked sob, I collapse into her arms, letting out all the fear and rage and guilt I've been holding inside. Megan holds me tight as I cry, one hand stroking my hair the way Mom used to when I was little.
Dad's hand finds mine again, and I grip it like an anchor as the storm of emotion washes through me. My sister's right.
I'm still me.
Changed, maybe, but not broken. Not lost.
The door opens and Vadim walks in, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. My heart leaps into my throat as I search his expression for any hint of news.
"He'll make it," Vadim says softly. "The surgeon says Freddy got lucky. He'll need time to recover, but he should pull through."
Relief floods through me, making my knees weak. After everything that's happened, it finally seems like there's a glimmer of good news.
I notice Dad studying Vadim intently, concern creasing his features. It strikes me that in all the chaos, I haven't properly introduced them yet.
"Dad," I say, taking Vadim's hand and drawing him closer. "This is Vadim. My husband."
Dad's eyes widen slightly at the word 'husband.' He looks between us, and for a moment I see a flash of clarity in his gaze that I haven't witnessed in months.
"Mr. Huang," Vadim says, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. He extends his hand to my father. "I wish we could have met under better circumstances."
To my surprise, Dad reaches out and grasps Vadim's hand firmly. His lips move, trying to form words, and though no sound comes out, I can feel what he's trying to say.
Take care of her.
Dad holds onto Vadim's hand a moment longer, his clouded eyes never once looking away. Then, he releases his grip and settles back in his chair, the moment of lucidity passing like a summer breeze.
I lean into Vadim's side, drawing strength from his solid presence. For all the darkness swirling around us, this moment feels like a small pocket of peace.
My stomach lets out a loud growl, breaking the tender moment between us.
"When's the last time you've eaten, zvyozdochka ?" Vadim's hand finds the small of my back, concern etching his features.
"I... I'm not sure."
"Let me get you something," he says, already moving toward the door. The protective instinct in his voice makes my heart flutter.
"Go with him," Megan says, giving me a knowing look. "I can tell you both have things to talk about." She glances meaningfully at my belly. "Besides, you're eating for two now. Can't have my future niece or nephew going hungry."
She turns to Dad, her voice brightening. "Did you hear that, Dad? You're going to be a grandfather soon!"
Dad's eyes light up at the word 'grandfather,' and he turns towards me as a ghost of a smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.
"Come on," Vadim says softly, extending his hand to me. "Let me take care of you both."
I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. The warmth of his palm against mine helps chase away the lingering chill from the dungeon below.
Vadim moves with practiced efficiency, gathering ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. My stomach growls again as I watch him pull out eggs, butter, heavy cream, and fresh pasta.
"You cook?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.
"Lenka taught me," he says, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Said if I was going to run away from my tutors, I might as well learn something useful while hiding in her kitchen."
The image of a young Vadim sneaking away to this very kitchen makes my heart ache with unexpected tenderness. Now he works the same counters with confident movements, whisking the eggs with pecorino cheese while bringing a pot of water to boil.
"Carbonara," he explains, catching my questioning look. "Quick, filling, and exactly what you need right now."
My throat tightens as I watch him dice guanciale, the sharp knife moving in precise strokes. After everything that happened tonight, here he is, making sure I'm fed.
Taking care of me in this simple, profound way.
The kitchen fills with the rich smell of rendering pork. Vadim adds the fresh pasta to the boiling water, his movements precise and focused. There's something incredibly intimate about watching him cook for me, more intimate almost than when we make love.
Right now, he's not the ruthless pakhan who kept me from putting blood on my own hands. He's just my husband, making sure his pregnant wife doesn't go hungry.
He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up from the pan, those storm-gray eyes meeting mine. "What is it, zvyozdochka ?"
"Thank you," I whisper, meaning so much more than just the meal. “Thank you for stopping me. Thank you for protecting me from myself. Thank you for loving me enough to keep me from becoming something I'm not."
Vadim's eyes soften at my whispered thanks. He sets down his wooden spoon and crosses to me in two long strides.
" Zvyozdochka ," he murmurs, cupping my face in his hands. "Everything I do, I do because you're my wife. My duty is to protect you, my job is to care for you, and my life is to love you until my final breath."
His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You changed everything for me. How could I not do the same for you? Both of you?"
One hand drifts down to rest protectively over my belly, and my heart flutters.
He returns to finishing our dinner, folding the pasta into the sauce with practiced movements. The rich aroma of cheese and pork makes my mouth water. When he plates the carbonara, the portions are generous to account for my increased appetite lately.
Vadim sets the steaming bowls down, then circles around to join me.
Vadim twirls the pasta around his fork and lifts it to my lips. The first bite of carbonara melts on my tongue—creamy, rich, and perfectly seasoned. Another tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it.
"Good?" he asks softly.
I can only nod, suddenly overwhelmed by how famished I am. My shoulders sag as weeks of tension finally start to uncoil. I hadn't realized just how tightly wound I'd been until this moment, sitting here in this warm kitchen while my husband feeds me pasta he made with his own hands.
"When did you last eat, zvyozdochka ?" He brushes away my tear with his thumb.
"I... I can't remember," I admit, my voice cracking. The events of the day crashes over me at once. My hands start trembling again.
"Here." Vadim gathers more pasta onto the fork. "Let me take care of you."
I part my lips for another bite, savoring the perfect balance of salt and richness. My body seems to wake up all at once, reminding me just how long I've gone without proper food. The baby must be hungry too.
Vadim continues feeding me small, careful bites. Each one helps ground me back in my body, away from the dark thoughts swirling in my head. Away from the weight of the gun in my hand and Sayanaa's taunting smile.
"I've got you," he murmurs, wiping a spot of sauce from the corner of my mouth. "Both of you."
His words unlock something in my chest. The tension drains from my muscles as I lean into his touch, finally letting myself be cared for.
"That was delicious," I tell him, licking the last traces of sauce from my lips.
"When this is all over, I'll cook for you every day for the rest of our lives," Vadim promises, his storm-gray eyes tender as he watches me. "Both of you."
"What else do you know how to cook?"
"Borscht, of course." The smile lights up his face. "And beef stroganoff the way Lenka taught me. Chicken Kiev. Pelmeni from scratch..." He trails off, looking almost bashful. "I make a decent blini too."
"Blini?" I lean forward, intrigued.
"Thin pancakes," he explains. "Perfect with caviar, or just honey and sour cream for breakfast."
The image forms in my mind unbidden—Vadim in our kitchen on a lazy Sunday morning, making breakfast while I sip tea, our child coloring at the table. Such an ordinary, domestic scene.
It's an image that's almost impossible to have in this place, but one that I can't help but crave.
"I'd like that," I whisper, daring to imagine that future. One where we can just be —not a pakhan and his wife, not two people caught in a war against evil, but just... us.
A family.
Vadim's fingers find mine across the table, and I let myself sink into the warmth of his touch. For this moment, I choose to forget about what lurks beyond these walls. About Kirsan and his empire of suffering. About the threats still hanging over our heads.
Right now, in this kitchen that smells of garlic and cheese and love, I let myself simply be a woman in love with her husband. A mother-to-be dreaming of Sunday breakfasts and bedtime stories.
I squeeze his hand, memorizing the feel of his big palm against mine. This is what we're fighting for, I realize. Not just to end Kirsan's evil, but for the chance at these ordinary moments. These simple acts of love.
I lean forward and press my lips to his, soft and gentle. His mouth moves against mine with infinite tenderness. As the kiss deepens, I feel the last remnants of tension melt from my shoulders.
His hand cups my face, thumb stroking my cheek with such care it makes my heart ache. I part my lips, inviting him deeper, and he accepts with a low sound that vibrates through my chest.
The horrors of the dungeon feel distant now, having been chased away by the warmth of his touch. Here in his arms, I can forget that I was a woman who almost crossed an unthinkable line. Here, I can just focus on being his wife, the mother of his child, and being loved completely.
My fingers trace the strong line of his jaw as our tongues meet. He tastes like the carbonara we just shared, like home and safety and everything I've wanted in him.
A deep peace settles over me, as natural as breathing. Whatever darkness lurks beyond these walls can't touch me here.
As long as I have him—my protector, my lover, my anchor—I know I'll be okay.