Chapter 38
JENNA
Ifloat somewhere between pain and numbness while the room tilts and sways around me.
Nico’s body lies crumpled on the floor, eyes glassy, blood spreading in a dark halo around his head. It should horrify me. Maybe later it will. But right now, all I can process is the way Abram’s arm is wrapped tightly around my body, anchoring me.
My split lip keeps reopening and I taste copper. My cuffed wrist throbs in a dull, ugly rhythm. But when Abram shifts me against his chest, the pain seems to fade into the background.
Denis and Mikail have rounded up the remaining Agosti soldiers, now disarmed, hands laced behind their heads. Wrists are zip-tied, weapons kicked out of reach. No one resists. Nico’s corpse has drained every drop of bravado from them.
Luka is among the living, the poor kid likely wondering what the hell he got himself into. But at least he’s alive.
“Area secure,” Denis calls out. He gives me a quick visual once-over and frowns at the blood on my jaw. “She needs to get to the ER, boss. Concussion for sure, maybe worse.”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, but the words slur. The ceiling slides sideways.
Abram tightens his hold. “We’re done here.” He orders Denis to arrange medical transport quietly—no sirens, no questions. Denis nods and steps into the hall, already dialing.
Mikail scoops a set of keys from Nico’s pocket, tossing Abram a small handcuff key. The metal is cold against my skin as Abram frees my wrist. He rubs circulation back in with gentle fingers, his mouth a hard line.
“Stay awake for me, malyshka,” he says, guiding me through the doorway. Stale hallway air rushes over us and I stumble. He catches me before my knees fold.
Outside, the desert night presses on, hot wind kissing our skin. Three Yukons sit at the curb. An unmarked ambulance waits half a block away, parked dark between street lamps. The paramedics wait beside a gurney, an example of exactly the kind of discretion Abram’s money can buy.
I open my mouth—now, Jenna, tell him about the baby—but Abram presses a finger lightly to my bruised lips.
“Conserve your strength,” he says. “We’ll talk later.”
The paramedics rush toward me with the gurney. They speak calmly as they help me on it, gently placing a C-collar around my neck and checking my blood pressure. I hear mention of possible head trauma.
They wheel me back to the ambulance. I clutch Abram’s sleeve when they try to separate us.
“I’m right here,” he says, climbing in beside me. His hand swallows mine—steady, warm, and grounding.
I wet my lips, summoning every ounce of consciousness as I tug him closer. “Tell them…” The words sound like sandpaper. “Tell them I’m pregnant.”
Raw shock flashes in his eyes, but before he can reply, darkness swoops in. The last thing I feel is his palm against my cheek and the ambulance lurching forward, the siren still mercifully silent.
White sheets. Soft beeping. Sunlight beams slanting through the blinds.
For a second, I think I’m in Abram’s penthouse when I first come out of the fog, but then I register the scent of antiseptic instead of espresso and realize the skyline is framed by reinforced hospital glass.
A shadow looms by the door. A mountain of a man in a dark suit, earpiece coiled at his neck. A bodyguard. Of course.
My throat screams when I try to swallow. “Water,” I croak, though the word barely escapes my lips.
Across the room, Abram jumps to his feet, chair screeching back. He crosses the space in three strides and presses the call-button for a nurse, while his other hand finds mine, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist.
“Malyshka, thank God.” The relief in his voice guts me. He turns to the guard. “Get the doctor. Now.” The big man slips out, door whispering shut behind him.
I blink, trying to piece timelines together. Outside the window the sky is bright. “How long?”
“Night passed,” he says softly, smoothing a strand of hair off my forehead. “Concussion had you under. They kept you sedated so your brain could rest and recover.”
Concussion. Right. Nico. My stomach flips, my hand flying instinctively to it. “The baby—”
Abram’s grip tightens. “Easy. Breathe.”
The door opens and a woman in pale green scrubs enters. She’s in her mid-thirties, sharp but kind eyes behind rimless glasses.
“Dr. Reyes,” she introduces herself while checking the monitor. “Good to see you awake, Ms. Ridley.”
I’m barely able to manage a nod. “My baby?”
She smiles genuinely. “We ran a full maternal trauma panel, repeated scans six hours apart. No placental abruption, amniotic fluid levels are normal. You and baby are both stable.”
A sob claws up my throat, relief so fierce it hurts. Abram exhales a breath.
Dr. Reyes palpates gently around the bruise blooming across my jaw. “You’ll have headaches for a few days. No sudden movements, plenty of fluids, a light diet.” She glances at Abram’s bandaged forearm and the dried blood on his knuckles. “Both of you could use plenty of rest, frankly.”
He gives a curt nod. “She gets whatever she needs.”
The doctor’s lips twitch. “Already noted, Mr. Vasiliev.” She hands him a folder of discharge instructions before leaving the room, though I get the feeling we won’t be going anywhere until an entire security battalion signs off.
Silence settles over us. Abram brings my fingers to his lips, eyes shimmering with raw emotion.
“I was terrified he killed the baby,” I whisper.
“So was I,” he answers. Then quieter, almost like a vow, he adds, “Never again.”
I tug him closer, needing the solidity of his chest against my cheek, the steady drum of a heart that just went to war for me. Sunlight spills over us, and for the first time since the restaurant I let myself believe we’re safe.
Abram settles on the mattress beside my hip, his big body somehow fitting there like a disciplined guard dog. His thumb sweeps tiny circles across my knuckles—sweet torture when every other part of him radiates lethal energy.
He clears his throat. “So.” The single word is deep, cautious, and weirdly hopeful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I huff a soft laugh. “You mean why didn’t I blurt it out between spreadsheets and threat assessments?”
“That would’ve worked,” he deadpans.
I tug the sheet higher over my lap. “At first I needed to process it. Surprise pregnancies aren’t exactly something you announce on Slack.”
His brow arches. “Slack?”
“Figure of speech, Mr. Antiquated Communication.” A grin tugs at my swollen lip.
He chuckles, but lets me continue. “Then Claire convinced me I should make it special. I thought the Michelin-star place you booked would be perfect—candles, an incredible view, a fancy soup I couldn’t pronounce. The perfect setting, right?”
Recognition flashes in his ice-blue eyes and he nods ruefully. “Ideal, before the armed-idiot intermission.”
“Exactly.” I squeeze his fingers. “Not really the vibe for baby confessions.”
He winces, but there’s humor behind it. “Point taken.”
My smile wavers. The hospital hum fades as all the unspoken fears crowd in. “Honestly, Abram, I didn’t know if you’d want any of this.” I gesture to my stomach. “We’ve known each other, what, almost two months? Six weeks since The 13th Floor. That’s whirlwind territory.”
His thumb stills, the quiet stretching between us until I think I might float away on it. Then he leans in, forehead almost touching mine.
“Listen to me, Jenna Ridley. You are not alone in this. Not for one heartbeat. I am in—blood, bone, and soul. You and our child are mine to protect.” Each word is deliberate, intentional.
My chest caves with relief, but old defenses kick in once more. “You say that now, but what if the Bratva world gets uglier? We survived last night, but what if…” I trail off.
He exhales like a volcano venting steam.
“I hated every second of last night, other than our peaceful moments at the restaurant before all hell broke loose. But I promise, I will carve out a safer reality for us, for our family. You’ll never be used against me again.
” His gaze slides to my belly, softening in a way that makes my heart ache.
“This baby… it’s a gift I never expected. ”
A ridiculous hiccup-sob escapes me. “So you’re not mad?”
“Mad?” His lips brush my bruised knuckles. “I’m furious. I’m furious at Nico, at myself for not preventing this. But about the baby?” He shakes his head, a small smile finally breaking through. “I’m over the moon. I’m just sorry you carried that fear and uncertainty alone.”
I dab at my eyes. “Thank you.”
“What do you need from me, malyshka?”
“Food. I’m starving.”
He laughs and stands, planting a gentle kiss to my forehead. “I’ll call the kitchen, have them make whatever you’re craving.”
“Steak and ice cream?”
Another laugh. “Anything. And after that, you rest. Tomorrow, we’ll talk names.”
Names. The word flutters through me like a sunrise. I watch him stride to the door and issue an order to the guard, letting my head sink back into the pillows.
He’s happy about the baby.
He comes back, wrapping his hand around mine. I notice a shift in his gaze—a flicker of storm-cloud gray passing through the icy-blue.
“What?” I ask, heart tripping. “Tell me.”
He draws a breath so deep his ribs lift beneath the hospital scrubs someone scrounged for him. “I have a confession. Something I’m not proud of.”
Instant panic. “Is this about last night? Are we in trouble with the police?”
“No.” He squeezes my hand, cutting off the spiral. “Not legal trouble. Personal.” His voice drops to a gravelly hush. “I was going to tell you something at the restaurant. Before Nico ruined everything.”
The memory flashes—candlelight, fabulous wine I couldn’t drink, my own secret burning my tongue. “Okay,” I whisper. “Tell me now.”
He inhales again before those eyes lock onto mine, fierce and unblinking. “I love you, Jenna Ridley.”
Time stands still.
He keeps going, words rushing out as though the dam finally burst. “I’ve loved you since the first day you marched into my office.
I knew it was reckless, so I buried it under rules and distance.
But last night, seeing a gun to your head, and now knowing that our child could have been gone before I even met them… ”
He can’t finish the sentence. He looks away, shame written in the tight line of his shoulders. “I was a coward. Too scared of how hard my feelings for you hit me.” A humorless laugh. “Abram Vasiliev, afraid. Pathetic.”
My heart aches and I scoot closer, wincing at the pull of IV lines, and cup his face in my hands. “There’s nothing pathetic about protecting yourself. Or about protecting me.”
“I failed at both.”
“You didn’t.” I tip his face back so he has no choice but to see the truth in mine. “I’m alive. Baby’s healthy. And you took down an entire army for me. So, apology accepted, if you insist on giving one. But there’s nothing to forgive.”
His eyes flare, hope and disbelief colliding. “You forgive me?”
“I love you, Abram.” Saying it aloud fills me with molten warmth. “I’ve been terrified to admit it because… well, look at you. Crime-lord-slash-sex-god is a bit intimidating on a résumé.”
A true smile cracks his serious mask, small but genuine. He bends, brushing his lips against mine—soft, reverent, loving. My hand slips to his neck, feeling the steady hammer of his pulse.
When he pulls back, determination replaces doubt. “Live with me. Full-time, no more overnight bags.” His hand slides to my stomach. “Raise our child in a place I can keep you safe.”
“Penthouse view and unlimited steak-and-ice-cream room service?” I tease, happy tears threatening to spill.
He huffs a laugh. “Terms negotiable, except for the safety part. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Then yes,” I breathe. “A thousand times yes.”
His arms come around me carefully, tenderly, mindful of bruises. I bury my face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent. Right here, in this fortress of muscle and tenderness, is where I’m meant to be, where our baby will be loved and protected.
An unspoken promise is made in that moment, one neither of us has any intention of breaking.