Chapter 23 Nadya
NADYA
The doctor returns with a folder clutched so tightly his knuckles have blanched, and the moment I see the angle of his shoulders I know the news is bad before he even speaks.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Makarova,” he says, voice measured, eyes flicking once to Lev standing just behind me and then straight back to me.
“The detailed HLA workup confirms what the rapid panel only hinted at—neither you, Mr. Buryakov, nor Mila is a viable bone-marrow match for Nikolai. We’ll start an urgent search on the international registry, but that process can take time. ”
Time.
Time Nikolai’s cardiologist keeps reminding me he doesn’t have.
I nod—once, sharply—because if I open my mouth right now I’m afraid all that will come out is a scream.
Mila, oblivious, colors in a plastic chair by the window; Nikolai dozes lightly in his bed, an IV humming beside him.
My whole world is contained in that corner of the room, and none of us is enough to save him.
The doctor outlines next steps—expanded typing, donor banks, compassionate-use protocols—but the words slip past like water over glass. When he finally excuses himself, Lev moves to my side, a silent wall of steadiness, but his comfort only makes the hollowness inside me echo louder.
My phone buzzes.
Konstantin.
I almost let it ring out of spite—he should be here, not chasing blood and bullets—but I swipe to answer because I don’t have the energy for another fight played out in missed calls and terse texts.
“I’m on my way back,” he says, breath short like he’s talking while moving fast. “Twenty minutes, maybe less.”
I look at Nikolai’s pale face, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, and something hard settles behind my ribs. “Don’t bother,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can manage. “We’re coming home.”
A pause crackles through the line. “Nadya, what happened?”
“None of us are matches.” I keep the sentence short, factual, easier to hold together that way. “The registry search starts tomorrow. There’s nothing more to do here tonight.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he says immediately.
I don’t confirm. I don’t argue. I simply end the call, slide the phone into my pocket, and turn to Lev.
“Help me get their things,” I tell him, forcing each word through the tightness in my throat.
He nods—no questions, no platitudes—and moves to gather Nikolai’s small bag while I crouch to tell Mila it’s time to go. She smiles, thinking this means bedtime stories and hot chocolate, and I paste on a smile to match because she deserves that illusion for one more night.
Inside, though, the disappointment coils and pulls, heavy and relentless—we are his parents, his blood, and still we are useless.
I keep my expression calm as I lift Nikolai’s hoodie over his head, gently guiding his arms through the sleeves.
He’s still groggy, barely aware we’re moving.
Mila hums as she skips around the room, clutching the stack of coloring sheets the nurse gave her, and I nod and smile and pack methodically—because the alternative is shattering right here in front of them.
I won’t let them see that.
Not tonight.
Lev carries the heavier bag, his massive presence strangely quiet. He hasn’t asked questions, hasn’t offered sympathy. Just shadows me like he knows I’m only one deep breath away from losing it.
I whisper a thank-you to the nurse at the front desk as we leave. She gives me that smile—the one doctors and nurses reserve for parents they know are walking into something bigger than they can fix. It’s not pity. It’s acknowledgment.
I nod back.
Outside, the air is cooler than expected.
Lev opens the rear door of the SUV, and I buckle Nikolai in, smoothing his hair off his forehead. His eyes flutter but don’t open. Mila climbs in on her own, chattering about how she drew a picture of a duck with a crown.
“I think the duck is the boss,” she says.
“Of course she is,” I murmur, kissing her cheek.
I shut the door before my voice cracks.
Lev loads the bags and comes around to the driver’s side. “I’ll take us back. You need anything?”
“No.” I press a hand to my temple. “Just drive.”
The ride is silent, the kind of quiet that hums with everything left unsaid. The city moves past us in blurred streaks of red lights and half-empty sidewalks. The world doesn’t know that a five-year-old in the back seat is waiting on a miracle, and I hate it for that.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the lights are already on. Konstantin’s truck is parked out front, engine still warm. He’s leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s been waiting there for hours instead of minutes.
He straightens the second Lev opens the back door, but he doesn’t rush us.
He doesn’t say a word as I carry Mila in, her cheek pressed against my shoulder, or as Lev lifts a half-asleep Nikolai and follows me upstairs.
We settle them into their beds in silence, careful hands tucking them in with the kind of reverence you give glass.
Only once both doors are closed and the house is wrapped in hush does Konstantin speak.
“We’ll do everything,” he says softly, meeting my eyes in the dim hallway. “Whatever it takes. Whoever we need to call. I don’t care what it costs. We’re going to save him.”
I nod, but I don’t respond. Not with words. I can’t—not yet.
I retreat to my room.
The silence is thick. Pressing.
Sleep won’t come.
I lie there for what feels like hours, staring at the ceiling, at the shadow of the ceiling fan tracing circles I can’t escape from. My body’s exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying that moment—the doctor’s face, that slow shake of his head. The finality of none of you are a match.
At some point, I get up.
The hallway creaks under my bare feet. I don’t bother putting on a robe. My tank top is thin, my shorts even thinner, and a selfish part of me hopes he’s still awake. That he’s just as haunted. That he’s not resting easy while I unravel alone.
His door is cracked. I push it open quietly.
He’s inside, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his sweatpants, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. The bedside lamp is still on, casting a soft gold glow over his shoulders.
He looks up when I step in, and his expression shifts the moment he sees me—surprise, confusion, then something softer, darker.
“Nadya,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer.
I step closer, one breath at a time, until I’m between his legs. I climb onto him slowly—one knee on either side of his thighs—and straddle him without breaking eye contact.
His hands find my waist instinctively, fingers tightening like he’s not sure whether to pull me closer or hold me still.
I lean in, my hands sliding up his chest, palms splayed over the warm, solid heat of him. “Don’t talk,” I whisper. “Just let me feel something that isn’t fear.”
His eyes search mine, still heavy with the day, with everything we didn’t fix. But he doesn’t stop me.
And when I kiss him—slow, deep, needy—he kisses me back like it’s the only thing keeping us both from breaking. His grip tightens. My hips shift forward, finding the solid length of him already rising beneath me.
Neither of us pretends this is about comfort.
It’s about control. Desperation. Claiming something when the rest of the world feels like it’s slipping through our fingers.
He growls against my mouth, hands sliding under my shirt, dragging the thin fabric up and over my head, baring my skin to his heat. His grip on my waist tightens, but he doesn’t take control. He lets me lead, lets me move against him.
I roll my hips over him, slow and teasing, grinding down against the hard length already straining beneath his sweatpants. My nipples tighten under the thin cotton of my tank top, brushing his chest with every motion.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look up at me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel.
“What I need to.”
He leans back slightly, resting on his hands behind him, giving me space. His cock presses up thick and hot through the fabric, and I grind against it with slow precision, feeling myself grow slicker with every pass. I’m already wet. Have been since I stepped into this room.
I lift my arms, peel the tank top over my head, let it drop beside the bed.
His gaze drops to my bare chest. His eyes flare, but he doesn’t move. He’s letting me have control, exactly like I asked.
I reach between us, slide his waistband down, and his cock springs free—hard, heavy, flushed deep with color. I wrap my fingers around it, stroke slowly, watching his breath catch. His thighs tense beneath mine. But he still doesn’t touch me beyond holding my hips.
I shift, pull my panties to the side, and sink down onto him.
We both gasp.
He’s thick. I feel every inch stretch me, fill me. I stay still for a second, adjusting to the pressure, to the perfect way he fits inside me.
Then I start to move.
Slow at first. Just a grind, forward and back, letting my clit rub against the base of him with every stroke. My hands rest on his chest, feeling the warm flex of muscle under his skin.
He groans beneath me but doesn’t try to take over. His fingers dig into my hips, and I know it’s taking everything in him not to flip me, not to fuck me into the mattress like we both know he wants to.
I ride him harder.
My tits bounce with the movement, and his gaze drags over them like he’s memorizing every curve, every breathless sound I make. I watch him watching me. The restraint in him. The fire barely held in check.
My clit throbs from the pressure, and I chase it, grinding deeper, faster. I start to pant, the wave building fast. His cock hits that spot inside me just right, again and again, and I’m close—right there, right at the edge—
“Fuck—” I gasp. “Don’t move. Just let me—”
I come with a sharp cry, thighs trembling, my body pulsing around him, clutching him tight. The orgasm rolls through me in hot waves, and I ride it out, hips slowing but never stopping.
And that’s when he snaps.
His grip tightens, and in a blur of movement, he flips me onto my back, never pulling out. He drives into me hard, deep, grinding his hips down like he’s trying to get even deeper.
I cry out again, legs wrapping around him, hands clawing at his back.
“So fucking wet,” he growls against my neck. “You were made for this.”
He fucks me like he means to erase everything we can’t control. Like if he thrusts deep enough, hard enough, it’ll push back time. Change the outcome. Save us.
I arch into him, moaning his name, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
When he comes, he groans deep in his chest, burying his face in my neck, cock pulsing as he spills inside me, thick and hot.
We lie there for a few moments—his chest rising and falling beneath me, my fingers tracing lazy patterns along the edge of his collarbone. My thighs are trembling, sore in the best way, my body humming from the force of everything we just did.
But he’s still hard. Still inside me.
And when I shift slightly, I feel him twitch.
His hands slide down to my hips. “You done?” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough.
I lift my head, smirk against his jaw. “Not even close.”
He rolls me over again—slow this time—settling me on my stomach, my cheek pressed into the pillow. I let out a breath as I feel him drag his palm down the curve of my spine, over the dip of my lower back, and between my legs.
“You’re soaked,” he says, voice thick with heat. “You didn’t even slow down.”
I spread my legs for him, hips tilting back. “So do something about it.”
He groans, deep and rough, then pushes back inside me—from behind now, slow and deliberate. The angle is different. Deeper. He braces one hand beside my head, the other gripping my hip, holding me exactly where he wants me as he fucks into me from behind.
Every thrust hits hard, angled to make me feel every inch of him.
I moan into the sheets, grinding back against him, the sound of skin on skin sharp and obscene in the quiet room. His fingers dig into my hips, then slide around to my front, finding my clit again. He rubs tight, hard circles, fucking me faster, dirtier.
“Say my name,” he demands.
I do—again and again—until I’m coming for the third time, hips stuttering, legs shaking.
But he’s not done. He pulls out and flips me onto my back, hooking my legs over his shoulders. His cock slides back into me in one smooth thrust and I scream—yes, just like that, every nerve lit up again.
This position splits me open.
He fucks me hard, deep, his hands braced on either side of my head. I claw at his back, my nails dragging down the sweat-slicked muscle, legs trembling with every impact.
He leans in and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing, then switches to the other—licking and sucking like he’s trying to make me come just from that.
And it’s working.
My clit throbs, even without him touching it, just from the stretch, the grind, the rhythm of his hips.
He slows, kisses me again—deep and messy—and murmurs, “Turn around.”
I do—without question.
He pulls me to the edge of the bed, lifts one of my legs up, his hand under my knee, and enters me again while I kneel sideways on the mattress. The angle is brutal—thrusts grinding right into that spot inside me, my moans turning into desperate cries.
I lose track of how many times I come.
He doesn’t stop.
Even when he finishes again—cock pulsing, heat flooding inside me—he stays buried, kissing my neck, my shoulders, whispering that I drive him fucking crazy.
We collapse together eventually—panting, tangled, my legs draped over his, both of us slick with sweat, flushed and ruined.