73. Chapter 73
73
Bella
S ound slips in first—low, muffled, like I’m underwater. Voices. Footsteps. The beep of a monitor. I can’t quite catch the words, but one voice breaks through the fog, clear and raw.
“Is she okay?”
Konstantin. I’d know that voice anywhere.
“Yes, she is. And the baby is stable,” Dr. Katya says. “But she needs rest, Mr. Belov. You, too. You haven’t slept since —”“I don’t need sleep,” he says, cutting her off, his voice closer now. “I need to know she’s okay.”A sigh. “I’ll be back to check on her soon. Try to get some rest.” I hear the door click shut, the sound sharp and final. The room goes quiet, except for the steady beep of the monitor and the rasp of Konstantin’s breathing.
I try to open my eyes, but the weight of them pulls me back down. It’s like my eyelids are lined with lead. I want to sink back into the darkness, let it swallow me whole. It would be so easy. So warm.
His hand is warm, wrapped around mine. Not letting go.
I try to squeeze back, but my fingers don’t obey, and it’s tempting to slip away again. Just for a little while longer.
But then his thumb strokes over my knuckles, rough and tender at once, and I can’t stay under. Not when he’s right here, holding me like he’s afraid to let go.
I force my eyes open. Light slices through the room, too bright, too sharp. I squint, the ceiling coming into focus. White. Sterile. The sick wing. Again.
“Bella?”
His face looms over me, shadowed and unshaven, and somehow, even the exhaustion makes him look hotter—more rugged, more dangerous. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and the skin beneath them is smudged with exhaustion, the kind that only makes him look more savage and raw.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice a dry rasp.
Relief transforms his face, softening the hard edges I’ve grown so accustomed to. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, the touch unexpectedly gentle.
“Water?” I whisper.
He reaches for a glass on the bedside table, supporting my head as I take small sips through a straw. The cool liquid soothes my parched throat.
“How long…” I ask when I can speak more clearly.
“Forty-eight hours,” he says, setting the glass aside but not moving away. “Your body’s been through hell.”
“The baby—”
“Is fine,” he interrupts, his hand finding mine again. “Healthy. Strong.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Stubborn, like its mother.”
I try to smile back, but suddenly, tears are welling up, spilling over before I can stop them.
“The children? Julian? Lila?”
“All safe,” he assures me, thumb brushing away my tears with surprising tenderness. “No injuries. They’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”
His voice is softer, a rasp of emotion that wasn’t there before. And it’s all too much—the warmth of his touch, the gentleness in his eyes, the tenderness that has no business coming from a man like him.
“You… you should’ve told me,” he says, voice thick.
I pause. He is talking about… our baby.
“But I thought you didn’t… you didn’t want this,” I whisper.
Something dark and haunted flickers across his face.
“I didn’t. Not at first. But then you—” He stops, jaw tightening as he swallows hard, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “You stepped in front of a bullet for my son—a child you’ve known for weeks. I watched you comfort Alya when her own mother couldn’t be bothered. I watched you build a family out of broken pieces, and I realized something.”
His forehead touches mine, his breath warm against my lips. “No woman has ever been as honest or as loyal to me as you have been, without conditions, without contracts. My own mother has spent a lifetime devoted to my father despite everything. I never understood that kind of loyalty until you.”
Tears sting my eyes again, but these are different—warm with something that feels dangerously like happiness. His thumb swipes across my cheek, catching another tear.
“I’ve tried so damn hard not to become my father,” he continues, his voice rough with emotion. “Controlling. Distant. Seeing people as pieces on a chessboard. But I did anyway. I became him. I hurt you. I hurt everyone.”
I don’t think. I just reach for him, my arms winding around his neck as he bends down and pulls me against his chest. His lips press to my forehead, firm and lingering, like he’s holding on to something fragile.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his breath stirring my hair. “For everything.”
I squeeze him tighter, pressing my face into the curve of his neck.
“Who are you?” I murmur, half laughing, half sobbing. “What did you do with Konstantin Belov?”
His chest vibrates with a low, husky laugh. “Thank you,” he says, voice rough and raw. And I know what he means.
Thank you for fighting for the children. Thank you for fighting for me.
My heart hammers against my ribs, wild and reckless. This is what it feels like—to fall without a safety net, to finally leap into the unknown.
“Konstantin…” My voice trembles, and I force myself to keep looking at him, even as my throat tightens. “I love you.”
His eyes go dark, intense, and he just stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then he cups my face, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw.
“And I love you,” he says, voice dropping to a rasp. “ Kiska .”
Before I can take another breath, his mouth is on mine—firm and claiming, his hand threading through my hair, holding me to him like he can’t bear to let go. The kiss is soft, then rough, then desperate, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into me.
When he finally pulls back, our foreheads are pressed together, breaths mingling. He swipes his thumb under my eye, catching another tear.
“You love me?” he says, brow lifting. “Then stop worrying so much. You just woke up. You’re supposed to be resting, not overthinking everything.”
I choke out a laugh, swatting his shoulder weakly. “Sorry. Just thought I’d check in, seeing as you’re hovering over me like a Russian vulture.”
“Vulture?” he scoffs, but his eyes are warm, that rare, crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“Okay. More like an overbearing dictator in blood-stained Armani,” I mutter.
His smile widens, and then he leans down and kisses me again—softer this time, lingering, like he’s got all the time in the world to memorize my lips.
A beat passes, and the silence settles over us, thick and heavy. The question slips out before I can stop it.
“And Irina?”
Something shifts in his expression—a complicated emotion I can’t quite read.
“Alive. Recovering. And gone.”
“Gone?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress slightly.
“I gave her what she wanted—money. Enough to disappear permanently. She’s been warned never to contact the children again.”
I study his face, looking for the cold calculation I’m used to seeing when he discusses business. Instead, I find something closer to resignation.
“You didn’t kill her,” I say quietly.
“I considered it,” he admits. “But she’s their mother. They’ve lost enough.”
There it is. The man who once vowed he had no heart. The man who claimed he could never love. And yet, here he is, choosing mercy over revenge.
I squeeze his hand, my fingers threading through his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For not becoming him.”
His eyes meet mine, and in them, I see everything he can’t say. Everything he’s afraid to feel.
The question slips out before I can stop it. “How… did you know about the baby?”
He rolls his eyes, a low, exasperated sound leaving his throat.
“Questions, questions,” he mutters, and his thumb starts tracing lazy patterns over the back of my hand. The rough drag of his calluses is a gentle rasp against my skin, grounding me. “One of the maids overheard you and my mother in the garden. She told me just before everything happened at Eagle Point.”
I close my eyes, processing this. “Yelena gave me an ultimatum. Terminate the pregnancy or leave with money and never tell you. Two weeks to decide.”
His hand tightens on mine, a flash of something dangerous crossing his face. “She had no right.”
“She was protecting you. The succession. The family.”
“You are family,” he says, the words firm, brooking no argument.
The simple declaration steals my breath. I search his face, looking for any sign that he’s saying what he thinks I want to hear. Instead, I find only certainty—and something else, something I’ve glimpsed only in rare, unguarded moments.
“What happens now?” I ask, afraid of the answer but needing to know.
Konstantin shifts closer, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Now, Isabella Marquez,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that sends shivers across my skin, “ ty moya koroleva i edinstvennaya .”
The Russian flows from his lips like warm honey, the unfamiliar words somehow feeling like a caress.
“What does that mean?” I ask, reaching up to touch his face, the stubble rough against my palm.
“It means you are my queen and my only one,” he translates, turning his head to press a kiss to my palm. “The contract is void. This—us—it’s real now. If you want it to be.”
My heart stutters in my chest, my pulse a wild, reckless drum. “Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
Something cracks open in his expression, the hard edges softening, his eyes going molten. He leans in, a shuddering breath escaping him like he’s been holding it in for years.
Then, without a word, he shifts me gently, one arm sliding beneath my shoulders as he lifts me and moves me to the side of the bed. His hand stays at the small of my back, holding me as he climbs in beside me.
His body stretches out long and solid, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. The scent of him surrounds me—clean, dark, and devastatingly male. The heat of his chest seeps into me as he tucks me against him, my cheek resting over his heart, his arm wrapping around my waist like a steel band.
His other hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and he presses his lips to my temple, lingering there, breathing me in.
“You should sleep, milaya, ” he murmurs, his voice low and rough against my skin.
“You should sleep,” I counter, tipping my head up to look at him. “You look exhausted.”
“Stubborn,” he says, and a half-smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and devastating.
“Pot. Kettle,” I say, a small, sleepy grin pulling at my own lips.
His chest rumbles beneath my cheek, a soft, contented sound, and he lifts my hand, pressing it over his heart. It pounds beneath my palm, strong and steady, the beat thrumming through me like a lullaby.
He squeezes my hand, holding it tight to his chest, his eyes falling shut.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead. “Stay right here.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper, eyes drifting closed as his warmth lulls me under. “I’m right here.”