Chapter 13 #3
Stroke, heart failure, something irreversible—I had been ready for every nightmare.
Dmitri’s gaze found me first, sharp and searching through the haze of consciousness.
Confusion clouded those familiar eyes before recognition flared, raw and undeniable.
His attention shifted to the sleeping child nestled in my lap, and something primal flickered across his features—wonder, grief, longing, all tangled into one fleeting expression.
I reached out carefully, resting a hand on Dmitri’s arm, a bridge between us that carried both apology and relief.
“Hey,” I whispered, voice cracking despite my effort to remain composed.
Dmitri’s lips parted, just slightly.
He tried to sit up.
A low, broken groan tore from his chest as he pushed against the mattress, muscles trembling with the effort.
One hand flew to his temple, fingers digging in hard, as if he could physically keep his skull from splitting open.
His breath came uneven, shallow, a man fighting his own body as much as his thoughts.
“You fainted,” I said quietly, keeping my voice steady for Vanya’s sake as much as my own.
He nodded once—careful, restrained, like even that small motion came with consequences.
His jaw clenched, then loosened, and when he spoke, his voice was raw, scraped thin by exhaustion and dehydration.
“I... don’t know what to do anymore, Penelope.”
The words landed heavier than any shouted apology ever could.
“Every waking moment since I got here,” he continued, swallowing hard, “it’s been the past on repeat. No breaks. No mercy. Every mistake. Every word I threw at you like knives. I see your face every time I close my eyes. I hear myself—how I spoke to you. What I did.”
His mouth twisted. “Three days ago I just... stopped eating. Couldn’t swallow. The thought of food made me sick. It all tasted like ash anyway.” A bitter exhale. “If I didn’t already have high blood pressure, starvation would’ve finished what guilt started.”
I studied him then—really looked, without the armor of anger or the shield of distance.
He was thinner than I remembered, cheekbones sharper, the lines around his mouth carved deep by sleepless nights.
Dark shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, hollowing out a face that had once looked invincible. His hair stood in disordered spikes, untouched by the meticulous control he used to exert over everything, and rough stubble darkened his jaw.
The hospital gown hung loose on shoulders that used to fill doorways, used to radiate power without effort.
He looked... broken.
Not the monster I’d built in my mind to survive him. Not the tyrant who’d caged me and crushed my spirit.
Just a man who’d finally run out of armor, stripped down to bone and regret.
“You hurt me,” I said, the words slipping out before I could soften them, before I could decide whether I was ready to say them aloud.
My voice didn’t shake—but it could have. “So much. From the moment you came back to New York. Forcing me into that marriage on my own birthday. Turning every day after into something I had to survive instead of live.” My chest tightened, breath catching. “You ruined me, Dmitri. Piece by piece.”
The impact showed instantly.
His throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.
His eyes reddened, glassy, and then—like something in him finally gave way—a single tear escaped the corner of his eye.
It traced a slow, helpless path down his cheek, disappearing into the collar of the gown.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
The tear didn’t stop him. Another followed. Then another.
“I’m so damn sorry.”
I had never seen him cry.
Not once—not through bloodshed, not through betrayal, not through loss. Monsters weren’t supposed to cry. Men like Dmitri Volkov didn’t fall apart quietly in hospital beds.
Yet here he was. Silent tears spilling without restraint, his face twisted with a grief so deep it looked almost unbearable.
“Even if you forgave me tomorrow,” he went on, voice fracturing, “what I did to you will haunt me until the day I stop breathing. I know that. I carry it with me every second.” His breath hitched. “No one deserves that kind of cruelty. Least of all you.”
He looked at me and there was nothing left in his eyes but devastation.
No dominance. No entitlement. Just a man bracing himself for judgment.
“Tell me to do anything,” he said hoarsely. “Command me. Punish me. Take everything from me. Send me away forever if that’s what you need.”
His voice dropped to almost nothing. “Just... please. If there’s even the smallest chance—just a sliver—that you could let me back into your heart.
.. if we could be a family... if I could spend the rest of my life trying to make it right.
..” His breath shuddered. “I’d do whatever it takes. Anything.”
Another tear slipped free. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t hide it. He just waited—exposed, dismantled—for whatever verdict I would give him.
I couldn’t hold his gaze anymore.
Seeing him like this hurt in a way rage never had.
I turned my head, blinking hard, staring at the blank wall as if it could anchor me.
Because beneath the broken man in front of me, I could still see him—the boy I’d loved once, the boy who’d kissed me under trees and sworn the world would never touch me.
“Hold me,” I said, barely above a whisper.
The words surprised us both.
His reaction was instant—but restrained.
He moved scarefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred.
His hand closed around my wrist, feather-light, reverent, as if afraid too much pressure would make me disappear.
The warmth of his palm seeped into my skin, sending a shiver up my arm that had nothing to do with fear.
I had missed that gentleness.
God help me—I had missed him.
I missed Dmitri.
The nineteen-year-old boy who had climbed the trellis outside my father’s estate at midnight, knuckles bruised and bleeding, clutching stolen flowers he couldn’t afford but insisted on giving me anyway.
The boy who smelled of rain and cheap cigarettes, who laughed too loud when he was nervous.
The boy who had hidden the welts his aunt left on his back beneath long sleeves, who flinched at raised voices yet still smiled at me like I was the only safe place he knew.
My first love.
The one who had whispered promises against my skin in the dark, swearing the world would never touch me as long as he lived—before the world tore us apart anyway.
“Dmitri...” My voice fractured around his name.
The sound alone felt dangerous. Tears spilled before I could stop them, blurring his face into something fragile and unreal.
He reacted instantly.
His free hand came up, thumb brushing the wetness from my cheek with a tenderness so careful it hurt more than cruelty ever had.
Like he was afraid even my tears might wound him.
“No,” he murmured, voice low and unsteady. “Don’t cry. Please.” His breath shuddered. “I don’t deserve your tears anymore. They’ll break what’s left of me.”
His thumb lingered at my cheekbone, warm, grounding. “I just want to see you happy again—for the rest of your days. Even if that happiness has nothing to do with me.”
The words lodged in my chest, heavy and sharp.
I nodded because I couldn’t trust myself to speak.
My throat felt like it was closing in on itself, choking on everything I’d never been allowed to say.
A moment passed. Then another.
“My arm’s numb,” I managed finally, my voice thin. “Vanya’s been asleep on me for hours.”
He glanced down instinctively, eyes softening at the sight of his son.
“How about we ask Edward to carry him back to your room?” he suggested gently. Not commanding. Not assuming. Just offering. “You should rest too.”
I nodded again.
He reached for the bedside phone with slow, careful movements, mindful of the IV line taped to his arm.
His voice was low when he spoke—controlled, stripped of authority, almost humble. Less than a minute later, Edward appeared at the door, silent and efficient as ever, eyes flicking briefly to Dmitri before settling on Vanya.
Dmitri gestured weakly toward the sleeping boy.
Edward stepped forward, slid his arms beneath Vanya with practiced gentleness, and lifted him as though he weighed nothing at all.
Vanya stirred only slightly, mumbling something incoherent before nestling closer to Edward’s shoulder. The sight nearly undid me.
Edward gave us a small, respectful nod—no questions, no commentary—and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.
The click of the latch echoed louder than it should have.
Silence settled around us, thick and intimate.
I stared at the empty space where Vanya had been, my heart still racing too fast, like it hadn’t realized the danger had passed.
Then I felt Dmitri’s hands—both of them now—sliding gently beneath my chin.
His touch was barely there, more invitation than insistence.
He turned my face toward him with the lightest pressure, coaxing rather than demanding, waiting to see if I would pull away.
I didn’t.
Our eyes met.
“Maliya,” he breathed.
The word shattered me.
That old endearment—the soft Russian diminutive he’d only ever used in private, whispered against my skin when the world couldn’t reach us—ripped straight through every wall I’d built.
It wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t manipulation. It slipped out of him like instinct, like memory.
I broke.
I collapsed forward into his arms before I could think, sobs tearing free from somewhere deep and feral.
He caught me instantly, holding me against his chest despite the IV tugging painfully at his arm, despite the weakness still trembling through him.
His arms wrapped around me with desperate restraint, like he was afraid to hold too tightly but terrified to let go.
“How could you become so cruel?” I cried into his shoulder, fists curling into the thin hospital gown.