39. Vadim
39
VADIM
Everything hurts. I drift in and out of consciousness, each breath a struggle. Voices float around me, meaningless syllables that blend together like static. My first instinct is to reach for my gun but my arms won't obey. I can't even feel them.
Where am I? The memories slip through my grasp like water. Fragments of images flash—the catwalk, Kirsan's cold smile, the glint of a blade. The searing pain as metal pierced flesh. Over and over.
Lacey. Her face on the runway, that flash of recognition and fear when she saw Kirsan beside me. I try to call out but my throat is raw. I need to protect her. Need to get to her. But the darkness keeps pulling me under.
More voices, urgent now. The sharp scent of antiseptic burns my nostrils. Someone touches my arm and I instinctively try to fight but my body won't respond. Panic rises in my chest—I'm completely helpless.
For the first time since I was a child watching Pyotr's cruelty, true fear grips me.
The memories start bleeding together. Kirsan's words about a father's love twisting into the way Lacey cradles her belly when she thinks I'm not looking. The fierce protectiveness I feel for our unborn daughter morphing into Kirsan's perverse obsession with Sayanaa.
My vision swims in and out of focus. The ceiling tiles above me blur and shift. I try to piece together what happened after Kirsan stabbed me but there's nothing but darkness and pain.
One word manages to escape my lips, barely a whisper: "Lacey..."
Warmth envelops my hand, and suddenly the pain recedes like a wave pulling back from shore. The harsh hospital lighting burns through my eyelids, but with each passing second, the world comes into sharper focus.
That incessant beeping grows louder—my heartbeat, I realize dimly.
Then I see her.
Lacey's face hovers above mine, those amber-flecked brown eyes glistening with tears. My throat constricts at the sight of the bruises marring her jaw, her neck, her arms. But she's alive. She's here.
"Hey," she whispers, squeezing my hand. Her touch anchors me, drawing me fully back to consciousness. "Welcome back."
My vision sharpens with each blink until the faces around me come into focus. My mother stands near the window, her hand clasped with Martin's. Serena hovers close to them both. The sight of my family gathered here makes my chest tighten with emotion.
Demyon leans against the wall, arms crossed and exhaustion etched into his features. Dark circles ring his eyes, but that familiar hint of a smirk plays at his lips. Megan stands beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm in a way that speaks volumes.
But it's Lacey who draws my gaze like a magnet. Those rich amber-flecked eyes I love so much shine with tears as she squeezes my hand. Despite the bruises marking her skin, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"Three days," Lacey says softly before I even have a chance to ask. "You've been unconscious for three days."
Three days. The words echo in my mind as I try to process them. Three days of lying here helpless while my family waited. Three days of Lacey worrying. I want to apologize, to pull her close and never let go. But even lifting my arm takes a monumental effort.
I try to speak but my mouth is too dry. She seems to understand, bringing a cup of water to my lips. The cool liquid soothes my raw throat.
"Larina?" I manage to rasp out.
A soft smile breaks through her tears. "She's fine. We're both fine." Her free hand drifts to her belly, and relief floods through me so intensely it makes me dizzy.
"You scared me," she says, voice breaking. "I thought... when I saw all that blood..."
I want to tell her I'm sorry for frightening her. Want to pull her into my arms and never let go. But my body feels leaden, unresponsive. All I can do is squeeze her hand weakly.
She leans down and presses her forehead to mine. The familiar citrus-lavender scent of her hair washes over me, and for the first time since waking, I feel truly safe. Truly at peace.
"I love you," she whispers against my skin. "Don't you ever do that to me again."
Demyon pushes off from the wall and approaches my bed. "You're a hero, you know that?" His familiar smirk widens. "Every news organization in LA is practically breaking down the doors trying to get to you."
I manage a weak chuckle. "Keep them away, would you?" The words scratch my dry throat. "I've had enough excitement for now."
"Welcome back, boss." Demyon's eyes hold genuine warmth beneath his usual irreverence.
My mother steps closer to the bed, her storm-gray eyes—the same ones I inherited—swimming with tears.
"I saw your interview, Vadyusha," she says softly. Her hand trembles as she reaches for mine. "The things you said about wanting to make the world better..."
"Mom—" My voice catches. Even now, using that word feels precious and new.
"No, let me finish." She squeezes my fingers. "I was wrong to push you away. Wrong to see only your father when I looked at you. You're nothing like him, Vadyusha. You're everything I hoped you would become."
The weight of her words settles in my chest. "You have nothing to apologize for," I tell her. "What Pyotr did to you?—"
"Is in the past." Martin steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my mother's shoulder. His easy smile reminds me of simpler times. "You did good, son. Real good."
But my attention keeps drifting back to Lacey. The angry purple bruises blooming across her jaw and down her arms make my stomach clench.
She catches me staring and gives me a reassuring smile, but I can't look away from the marks marring her skin. My eyes drift to the gentle swell of her belly where our daughter grows. The thought of how close I came to losing them both squeezes at my chest.
She must read the guilt in my expression because she takes my hand and places it over her belly. Through the thin hospital gown, I feel Larina's tiny kicks against my palm. The sensation grounds me, reminds me what I'm fighting for.
Lacey's fingers thread through mine. "Do you want to see the interview?"
"Did Megan embarrass me like I expected her to?" My voice comes out hoarse.
Megan straightens. "We should give you two some privacy." She herds everyone toward the door, though my mother lingers for a moment, worry etched in her features. Martin gently guides her out with a reassuring nod in my direction.
Once we're alone, Lacey pulls out her phone and brings up a video. Her hands tremble slightly as she hits play. I watch myself on screen, telling the world about my mother, about Pyotr, about the mission that's consumed my life. When I start talking about Lacey, my chest tightens at the raw emotion in my recorded voice.
The video ends, and Lacey turns to me with a ghost of her usual sass. "So... you think Moon River is a corny old song?"
I try to laugh at her mention of Moon River, but pain lances through my chest. "Careful, zvyozdochka . It hurts to laugh."
Lacey leans in, pressing her lips softly against mine. The gentle kiss speaks volumes—relief, love, forgiveness. When she pulls back, those amber-flecked eyes shine with emotion.
I drink in every detail of her face, memorizing how the light catches the golden flecks in her irises, how her lips curve into that soft smile that's become as essential to me as breathing. My heart thunders against my ribs, a fierce reminder of just how deeply this woman has worked her way into my soul.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you too." The words come easier now, as natural as breathing.
"There's something else you should know." She fidgets with the edge of my hospital blanket. "Captain Rutledge has been calling. He wants to speak with both of us."
My jaw tightens. Even now, the thought of that man near Lacey sets my protective instincts on edge. "I don't like it."
"Hey." She takes my hand, squeezing gently. "I'll be right there beside you when we go. We'll face whatever comes next together."
"I'm supposed to protect you," I protest weakly.
She shakes her head, a familiar stubborn set to her jaw. "No. We protect each other. That's what partners do."
Looking at her now—bruised but unbroken, fierce and loyal despite everything we've been through—I'm overwhelmed by how much I love her. "How did someone like me get so lucky and end up with someone like you?"
Her lips curve into that playful smile I adore as she leans in to kiss me again.