74. Chapter 74
74
Bella
Two days later
I wake to golden light filtering through gauzy curtains, painting warmth across the bed. For a moment, I’m disoriented—this isn’t the medical wing with its sterile whites and machinery. This is… my bedroom. Our bedroom.
Konstantin sleeps beside me, one arm draped protectively across my middle, his face relaxed in sleep in a way it never is in waking. The perpetual tension between his brows has smoothed out, making him look younger, almost vulnerable. His dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, his breathing deep and even.
Carefully, trying not to wake him, I shift to look at the clock. Just past nine in the morning. Dr. Katya must have approved my move from the medical wing back to our rooms.
Every inch of me feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry — muscles heavy, skin aching, a dull soreness radiating from my bones. Like the adrenaline that kept me upright for days has finally drained away, leaving me hollow and exhausted, but... oddly relaxed.
As if sensing my wakefulness, Konstantin stirs, his arm tightening slightly around me. His eyes open—those storm-gray blues instantly alert.
“Morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He looks fresher today.
“Morning,” I reply, unable to keep the smile from my face. This feels surreal—waking up beside him, his guard completely lowered, no pretense between us. “How long have we been here?”
Konstantin lifts his arm, glancing at the watch on his wrist. “Twelve hours and thirty-five minutes.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, warmth unfurling in my chest. Of course he’s that precise. It’s so him — calculated, controlled, down to the minute. And the way he says it, so matter-of-fact, like he’s cataloging data instead of talking about the time we’ve spent wrapped around each other.
Konstantin’s brows pull together, watching me like I’ve lost it, but I catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like my laughter might be contagious.
“The doctor said you could rest better in your own bed, as long as you remained calm.” His hand slides up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture casual, as if he’s been doing it for years rather than days. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I say honestly. “Hungry, actually.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Good sign.” He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, tapping out a quick message. “Breakfast will be here in ten minutes.”
“Efficient as always,” I tease, enjoying this relaxed version of him.
“I aim to please.” He shifts to prop himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression I’m still getting used to—open, unguarded, almost… tender. “Do you need anything? Water? The bathroom?”
I laugh softly. “I’m pregnant, not an invalid. But yes, bathroom would be good.”
He helps me up with unnecessary but sweet attentiveness, his hand on the small of my back as I make my way to the en-suite bathroom. When I emerge, he’s made the bed and opened the curtains fully, revealing a stunning view of the Pacific sparkling under a cloudless sky.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, drawn to the window. “I didn’t realize this room had such a view in the morning.”
“One of the reasons I chose it,” he says, coming to stand beside me. “I’ve always found the ocean… grounding.”
I glance at him, surprised by this small admission of something as inconsequential as a preference. It strikes me how little I know about the man I’m carrying a child for—his favorite color, whether he prefers mornings or evenings, the books that shaped him. All the small details that make up a person.
A soft knock at the door announces breakfast. Konstantin opens it to reveal not a maid as I expected but Oleg himself, carrying a tray laden with food.
“Mrs. Belov,” he greets me with a formal nod that’s softer around the edges than usual. “Your breakfast. Dr. Katya provided specific instructions for your meal plan.”
“Thank you, Oleg,” I say, genuinely touched by the personal delivery.
He sets the tray on the small table by the window, fussing with the arrangement in a way that seems oddly paternal.
“The children have been informed you’re back in your room and recovering well. They’ve been… eager to see you.”
I catch the ghost of a smile on his usually stoic face.
“I told them evening visits only,” Konstantin says, helping me to the chair. “You need rest.”
Oleg nods his approval. “I’ve arranged for lunch to be served here as well. Is there anything else you require?”
“No, thank you,” I say, still slightly bewildered by this new, solicitous version of the normally stern head of household.
After Oleg leaves, Konstantin joins me at the table, pouring tea from a silver pot. The breakfast spread is impressive—fresh fruit, yogurt, whole grain toast, poached eggs, and what looks like a protein smoothie in a tall glass.
“Doctor’s orders,” Konstantin explains, noting my examination of the food. “She was very specific about nutritional requirements.”
“I see you get bacon,” I observe, eyeing his plate with its more substantial offerings.
A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth. “I’m not growing a human.”
“Fair point.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the sun warming the room as it climbs higher in the sky. It’s strange how quickly the extraordinary can become ordinary—how sitting here with Konstantin, sharing breakfast after everything that’s happened, already feels like a routine we’ve practiced for years.
“The children are okay?” I ask finally, setting down my empty teacup. “Really okay?”
Konstantin’s expression sobers slightly. “They’re resilient. Lev and Nikolai have asked some questions about their mother—why she came back, why she said what she did. I’ve been as honest as appropriate for their age.” His hand finds mine across the table, fingers intertwining naturally. “We’ll work through this together. Make sure they understand it’s not their fault, that they’re loved. Children are adaptable, but they shouldn’t have to face this alone.”
The earnestness in his voice catches me off guard—this new Konstantin who speaks openly about emotional support and shared responsibility. It suits him better than I would have expected.
“And Alya?”
Before he can respond, there’s a commotion outside the door—young voices hushing each other, a muffled giggle.
The door bursts open, and Alya races in, followed more sedately by Lev and Nikolai. Behind them come Julian and Lila and—surprisingly—Elena, who winks at me over Alya’s head.
“Mommy! You’re awake!” Alya climbs onto the bed with the fearless determination of an 8-year-old, careful not to jostle me but clearly desperate for contact. “We made you a cake!”
Sure enough, Julian carries a slightly lopsided chocolate cake decorated with colorful frosting and too many candles. The words “GET WELL SOON MOMMY & BABY” are written in uneven blue lettering across the top.
“You did?” I ask, emotion threatening to overwhelm me again.
“Elena helped,” Lev says proudly. “We had to try three times because Nikolai kept eating the batter.”
“I did not,” Nikolai protests, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Arseny ate at least half.”
“Arseny?” I look to Elena, who has the decency to blush slightly.
“He’s surprisingly good with a whisk,” she says, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. “And other handheld implements.”
“Elena!” I gasp, gesturing to the children, but I can’t help laughing despite myself.
“We’re so glad you’re okay,” Julian says, setting the cake on the bedside table and leaning down to kiss my forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” I murmur automatically, making him roll his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s definitely the biggest concern around here,” Lila chimes in, but she’s smiling too, relief evident on her face.
The room fills with chatter as the children eagerly update me on everything that I’ve missed in the past few days. Konstantin remains beside me, his hand never leaving mine, even as he interacts with the children—answering questions, moderating disputes with unexpected patience.
It’s surreal—this semblance of domestic normalcy in the aftermath of so much violence and betrayal. But as I look around at these faces—some I’ve loved all my life, others I’ve only just begun to know—I realize this is what family looks like. Messy, complicated, but together.
After the cake is cut and distributed (with Konstantin subtly ensuring I get the largest piece), the children begin to wind down, the adrenaline of the past days finally catching up to them.
“Time to get to school,” Konstantin announces, rising from his spot beside me. “You can visit again tomorrow.”
There are token protests, but I can see the exhaustion on their young faces. One by one, they file out—Julian promising to bring me books, Lila offering to help with my hair “because hospital beds are murder on curls,” Lev and Nikolai extracting promises that I’ll be at their next soccer match.
Alya is the last to leave, her small face serious as she leans close to whisper in my ear. “I’m really happy about the baby, Mommy. I always wanted to be a big sister.”
My heart melts completely as she plants a kiss on my cheek before scampering after her brothers. Elena lingers at the door, giving me a look that clearly says we’ll be having a very detailed conversation later.
“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she says, her familiar snark barely concealing genuine emotion. “And I’m even more glad you’ve finally locked this down.” She gestures between Konstantin and me. “The sexual tension was becoming unbearable.”
“Elena!”
She grins, unrepentant. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking. I’ll see you tomorrow. And you —” she points at Konstantin, “— be good to her, or I’ll write about how you two met. And believe me, it’ll be juicy.”
Konstantin’s brow lifts. “You think anyone would believe you?”
“I’ll make them,” she says cheerfully, winking before disappearing down the hallway.
I laugh, shaking my head. “She’s impossible.”
“She’s loyal,” Konstantin corrects, resuming his place beside me. “To you.”
The room grows quiet, the energy shifting now that we’re alone again. Konstantin’s thumb traces circles on my wrist, his eyes never leaving my face.
“You look so beautiful,” he says softly, the unexpected compliment making heat rise to my cheeks. His fingers brush my hair back from my face, eyes tracing over my features as if memorizing them.
A knock at the door interrupts whatever he was about to say next. Before Konstantin can respond, the door opens, and Yelena walks in, elegant as always in a navy silk dress, her posture perfect despite the events of the past days.
“Konstantin,” she says, her voice carrying its usual authority. “A moment with Bella, please.”
He stiffens beside me, his expression shuttering closed. “Mother—”
“It’s alright,” I intercept, squeezing his hand. “Just a moment.”
His eyes search mine, and I see the question there— are you sure? I nod, and after a brief hesitation, he rises, pressing a kiss to my forehead before leaving us alone.
Yelena approaches the bed, her movements measured and precise as always. For a moment, she simply stands there, studying me with those penetrating eyes that have passed so directly to her son.
“I owe you an apology,” she finally says, the words clearly not coming easily to her. “And my gratitude.”
I blink, surprised by both the admission and the directness.
“What you did for Nikolai,” she continues, “stepping between him and danger without hesitation… it is what a mother does.” A small pause. “What I would have done.”
The admission costs her, I can tell. Yelena Belova does not often acknowledge others’ strength.
“And the ultimatum I gave you,” she adds, “was wrong. I thought I was protecting this family—protecting my son from complications at a critical time. I see now that I was mistaken.”
I study her face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but find none. Instead, I see something I never expected from this formidable woman—respect.
“Thank you,” I say simply, knowing that between us, fewer words are better.
She nods once, then, surprisingly, reaches out to briefly touch my hand.
“My son loves you,” she says, the words straightforward, not a question. “It makes him vulnerable. But perhaps… perhaps that is not such a terrible thing.”
The closest thing to a blessing I’m likely to get from her. I accept it with a nod.
“I’ll leave you to rest,” she says, already turning toward the door. But she pauses, and for the first time since I’ve known her, Yelena Belova smiles—a small thing, but genuine. “Welcome to the family, Isabella. Truly.”