25. Aurora
25
AURORA
I can't sleep. Not with the twins using my ribs as a percussion set.
I shift to the window seat, my reflection ghostly against the dark grounds of the estate. The security lights cast long shadows across the manicured lawn. Guards patrol in pairs, their silhouettes moving like chess pieces across a deadly board.
"There you are." Ruslan's voice comes warm and sleepy from behind me. "What are you doing out of bed?"
"Our children won't settle tonight," I whisper, hand curved over my belly. "I think they're planning a jailbreak."
He settles beside me, our bodies fitting together like we were designed as matching pieces. His hand covers mine, and for a moment, we both feel the insistent flutter beneath my skin.
"What's on your mind, zarechka? " His breath tickles my ear. "Besides our little acrobats."
I lean into him, drawing strength from his solidity. "I've been thinking about what I said earlier. About being merciful to Tamara. About letting Mikayla keep that connection."
"Are you having second thoughts?"
"No. But also yes." I sigh, struggling to articulate the complex emotions swirling inside me. "I meant what I said about mercy. But I'm worried my advice comes from my own grief, and not what's best for everyone."
Ruslan waits, giving me space to find my words.
"When I look at Mikayla, I see all the calls I never got to make to my mom over the last seven years. All the moments stolen from me." My voice falters. "All the times I've wanted to ask her advice but couldn't."
He strokes my hair. "You didn't want Mikayla to miss out on what could be her final chance to hear her mother's voice."
"But is that wise? Tamara tried to kill you. She helped murder her own son. She worked with Kristofer . She's dangerous. We can't afford to make mistakes. Not now."
"She is," Ruslan agrees, no judgment in his voice. "But your compassion isn't a mistake."
"Do you really think that it isn't? Because everything in the bratva world seems to thrive on punishing compassion. I'm scared my feelings about my parents cloud my judgment."
"Your heart sees things mine can't. And for that, we're stronger together." His warmth envelops me and he presses a gentle kiss to my ear. "Don't ever doubt that."
I feel a little better as Ruslan's words sink in. His faith in me is unwavering, even when my own confidence falters. I rest my head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat while our babies continue their gymnastics inside me.
"Maybe we need something positive to focus on," I suggest, the idea forming as I speak it. "Something to celebrate rather than worry about."
"What did you have in mind?"
"A baby shower." The words bring an unexpected smile to my face. "With the documentary finished, the trailer ready to go, and the nursery set up, we should do something just for us. For the babies."
Ruslan's hand traces gentle patterns on my belly. "When would you want this to happen?"
"Next week, maybe?" I twist to see his expression. "It would give me something else to think about besides the trailer release. And honestly, it might be nice to have a normal milestone for once."
"Normal." He chuckles softly. "I'm not sure that word applies to anything in our lives."
"I know. But we can pretend, right? Just for one afternoon?"
His smile reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in that way that makes my heart flutter. "Consider it done. I'll have Daria start arrangements tomorrow."
"Nothing too extravagant," I warn, though I know it's probably futile.
"You're carrying the Dragunov heirs. Extravagance is mandatory."
I roll my eyes but can't suppress my smile. "Fine. But I want it to feel intimate. Special."
"It will be. I promise." He kisses my temple.
Another sharp jab from inside me makes me gasp.
"That was a strong one," I say, looking up at Ruslan as he raises his eyebrows.
"Are you alright?" His hand immediately covers mine, concern etched across his face.
"Yes, just another enthusiastic little kick. Our son is practicing his boxing skills."
"How are you so sure that it's our son doing the boxing and not our daughter?"
"I just have a feeling." I guide his hand to the spot where I felt the movement.
We wait together, his palm warm against the stretched fabric of my dress, until another kick connects with his hand. His eyes light up, that rare smile breaking across his face.
"You know what I just realized?" I say, leaning back against the window frame. "We still haven't talked about names for our babies yet."
"You're right. We haven't." Ruslan's expression shifts to something more contemplative. "Not with everything that's been going on."
"We should probably start thinking about it." I stroke my belly gently. "The babies come whether we have names ready or not. I'm just not sure what I'd want to name them."
"Did your parents have any specific reason for naming you Jamie?" he asks, his voice softening when he mentions my birth name.
I feel a familiar twist in my chest at the mention of my birth name, but it's less painful than it used to be.
"My dad was a huge space nerd. So he named me after James Webb, the man who helped America win the race to the moon."
The moment I tell that to him, Ruslan's face lights up. The lines around his eyes crinkle slightly as he digests this little piece of my past.
"So you were always meant to stand among the stars," he says, his golden eyes warm with amusement.
"Do you find that terribly funny?" I ask, unable to keep from smiling.
"No." He shakes his head, that smile still playing on his lips. "It suits you. Your father chose well."
His words wash over me like a balm. It's strange how something so small can create this moment of lightness between us when everything around us feels so heavy. Even the simple appreciation of my birth name, and his acknowledgement of what it meant to my father.
It's brought just a single ray of light to what has otherwise been a very dark day.
"What about you?" I ask, eager to keep this peaceful moment alive. "Why did your parents name you Ruslan? Is there a story behind it?"
His hands settle on my waist, turning me so we're facing each other fully. The moonlight streaming through the window catches the gold in his eyes.
"My father believed names carry power," he explains. "In our family, we don't just pick names we like. We choose names with history, names that tell a story."
I lean into him slightly. "And what story does Ruslan tell?"
"It's from an old Russian poem—'Ruslan and Ludmila.' Ruslan was a warrior who battled sorcerers and monsters to save his beloved." His thumb traces circles against my hip. "My father thought it fitting for his son to be named after a literary hero. A way to remind me I must always be willing to fight for what's mine."
"Did your mother have any say in it?" I ask.
Something flickers across his face—a softer emotion I rarely see. "She did. My mother loved the poem too, but for different reasons. She told me once that she chose it because in the story, Ruslan's strength came from his heart, not just his sword."
I can't help but smile at the tenderness of his story as I place my hand over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath my palm. "She's not wrong about that."
The warrior fighting for his beloved.
It feels like us, in a way.
"We could name her Ludmila," I offer, placing my hand over his where it rests on my belly. "Our own little warrior princess."
Ruslan's expression shifts immediately. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows draw together.
"Ludmila?" He sounds almost horrified. "That's an old babushka name. I can already see her wearing a headscarf and complaining about her arthritis at age five."
I burst out laughing. "It can't be that bad!"
"It is. Trust me." He shakes his head firmly. "And also, I don't want to keep looking backwards to the past, zarechka . That's not what we're doing here."
His hand slides around to my lower back, drawing me closer.
"Everything we're fighting for. This war against Semyon. The documentary exposing Kristofer. Even taking control of the Vori . It's all about breaking free from the past." His voice grows more passionate as he speaks. "The past is worth remembering, yes, but the past cannot be changed no matter how much we want to change it. The only thing that matters is the future."
I lean into his touch, understanding flowing between us.
"Our children deserve names that helps them look forward," he continues. "Names that don't carry the heavy weight of what came before."
"But they should still have one Russian name, right?" I ask, watching his face carefully. "At least one of them should carry that part of their heritage."
Ruslan nods, thoughtful now. "Yes. One Russian name, but something modern. Something strong and hopeful."
I smile now, feeling a temporary moment of peace.
"I don't know any Russian names," I confide, leaning into Ruslan's warmth. "What would you suggest?"
Ruslan's hand continues its gentle path across my belly, his touch reverent against the stretched fabric of my dress. The twins respond with another kick, as if they can feel their father's presence.
"Before I suggest any," he says thoughtfully. "What qualities would you want our children to have? What kind of people do you want them to grow into?"
It's such a profound question that I have to pause.
I close my eyes, trying to imagine our children years from now. A boy and a girl with Ruslan's golden eyes perhaps, or maybe my hazel ones.
What do I want for them in this complicated world we're bringing them into?
"I want them to be brave," I say finally, opening my eyes to meet Ruslan's gaze. "Not fearless, because fear can be important sometimes, but brave enough to face what scares them."
Ruslan nods, encouraging me to continue.
"I want them to be kind," I add, my voice growing stronger. "This world can be so cruel. I want them to choose kindness even when it's not easy."
My hand joins his, our fingers intertwining above our growing children.
"I want them to be resilient. To know that falling down isn't failure as long as they get back up." The words come more easily now, flowing from somewhere deep inside me. "I want them to be honest with themselves and others. To understand their own worth without having to prove it to anyone."
I think of the girls down the hall, struggling with their grief, and add, "I want them to know how to love deeply, but also how to heal when they lose someone they love."
"And I want them to be free," I whisper, my voice catching slightly. "Free to become whoever they're meant to be, without the shadows of the past, mine or yours, hanging over them."
Ruslan kisses my shoulder gently, his lips warm against my skin as it sends a cascade of comfort through me.
"Those are all good qualities to wish for them," he murmurs, his breath tickling my neck. "Brave, kind, resilient, honest, loving, and free."
I lean back against him, savoring the solid press of his chest against my back, the subtle scent of cedarwood and mahogany that always clings to him. His arms wrap around me, one hand resting protectively over our babies. After the darkness of the past days, this moment feels almost surreal in its tenderness.
"For our son," he says after a long pause, his voice thoughtful. "What do you think about Andrei? It means 'manly' in Russian, but boys are often given this name to remind them that the chief quality of a man is to be brave and courageous. It'll remind him that he will always face the unknown with courage in his heart. Just like his mother."
The name and explanation roll off his tongue beautifully, and I test it on my own lips.
"Andrei."
It feels right somehow.
"And for our daughter," he continues, his thumb tracing small circles on my belly. "Nadia, maybe? It means 'hope' in Russian. A reminder to her that the sun will rise, even after the darkest of nights."
I turn slightly to see his face.
"Hope," I repeat. "I like that."
"Andrei and Nadia Dragunov," Ruslan says, a note of quiet wonder in his voice.
"They sound perfect together," I whisper, placing my hand over his. "Brave enough to face what scares them. Kind enough to change this world."
One of the twins kicks against our joined hands, as if offering their approval.
"I think they like their names," I say with a small laugh.
Ruslan smiles, that rare, genuine smile that transforms his entire face he reserves only for me. "Of course they do. You picked them."