Chapter 17 Naomi
NAOMI
Harsh white light hums above me, and the air tastes like antiseptic. A steady beep drills through the fog in my head until it becomes the only focus I can cling to. Pain blooms along my side, sharp and hot, but the ache is a distant second to the panic that claws up my throat.
I suck in a breath that scrapes like sand. My fingers tear at the blanket, then at the thin cotton of a gown that is not mine. The metal railing bites my forearm as I reach for my abdomen. I’m not prepared for the terror that surges through me when my palm meets my skin.
“The baby,” I choke out, my voice cracked and raw. My heart races so hard I can feel it under my tongue. “Oh God, the baby. Please, please.”
My vision swims as if the room cannot decide what stays and what goes. A warm hand closes around mine and tethers me before I drown.
“Naomi,” Daniil murmurs, low and urgent. “Look at me.”
I fight through the sting of tears. His face comes into focus first, then the rest of him, like a photograph developing in a tray.
Unshaven jaw, eyes ringed with sleeplessness, mouth pulled taut.
His palm covers the back of my hand, and his thumb moves in small, firm circles meant to calm me.
The heat of him eases some part of me that doesn’t listen to logic.
“You didn’t lose the baby, dushenka,” he says, each word careful and sure, like bricks laid straight and strong. He leans closer, his breath warm on my hairline. “You are both okay.”
The world tilts and rights itself on those words.
Not a promise or a guess. A truth he has already checked and checked again.
The sob that escapes me leaves me shaking from relief that makes every muscle go watery.
Tears leak out and slide into my hair. I press his hand to my cheek and try to breathe through the tremors that will not stop.
“You came back to me,” he whispers, as if he is afraid to say it too loudly. His forehead rests against mine for a heartbeat, and the contact makes me feel held in a way that has nothing to do with metal beds or monitors. “Both of you did.”
I let out a shaky laugh that breaks at the edges. “I was so scared.”
“I know.” His mouth slides against my skin. “I know.”
The room grows more clearly piece by piece.
The ceiling tile over my bed has a thin crack that runs like a river through the plaster.
The fluorescent light sings in a way I wish it would not.
The walls are the color of oatmeal, and the window is a rectangle of black.
The monitor to my right tracks my pulse and blood pressure in soft green lines.
A saline bag hangs from an IV pole near my shoulder, with a clear tube taped to my arm.
A nurse in pale blue scrubs quietly appears at the foot of my bed.
She checks the monitor, then moves around to my left.
She is petite, with kind eyes and quick hands that know where everything lives in this room.
Her gaze flits to Daniil, then back to me with a professionalism that does not change.
“Welcome back, sweetheart,” she says, in that easy medical tone that somehow makes you feel twelve and brave.
“You gave us a scare for a little while, but your vitals stabilized. The pain on your side is to be expected. I can adjust medication once the doctor clears it, since we are looking out for the little one.”
I catch her sleeve. “Please,” I rasp. “The heartbeat.”
“We can do that now.” She slides a small rolling machine closer, squeezes gel onto a wand and lifts the gown just above my abdomen. The gel is cool and startling against my skin. Daniil’s fingers tighten around mine.
The nurse moves the wand with the patience born from finding a thousand tiny heartbeats in a thousand different bodies.
For a moment, I hear only the whoosh of my own blood and the bustle of something beyond the closed door.
Then it breaks through, gentle and astonishing, fast as a hummingbird.
A gallop, steady and sure. A rhythm of life.
I cover my mouth. The tears that come now are not jagged, but warm and steady, and I let them fall. The nurse smiles without looking away from the screen.
“There we are,” she says softly. “Strong and steady. Measuring right where we want at this stage.”
Daniil doesn’t make a sound. When I turn my head, I find him watching the monitor the way a man watches the horizon for a ship he prayed would find its way home.
His eyes shine with a brightness he never shows to anyone else.
He brings my knuckles to his lips and kisses them, just once, and that small tenderness wrecks me.
“That is our child,” he says, like a secret he will guard with his life.
The nurse wipes the gel away and tucks the blanket back around me.
“Doctor Levin will be in to go over details,” she assures us.
“In the meantime, take small sips of water if your throat is dry. Call me if you feel lightheaded or if the pain climbs. We are keeping it simple and safe with medication.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She gives a short nod and leaves as softly as she arrived.
I let my head sink into the pillow. The ache along my ribs sharpens when I breathe deeply, but it feels familiar now, like a boundary I can navigate without falling apart. I slip my hand from Daniil’s and lay my palm over my stomach.
“Hi,” I breathe, speaking to the baby. “I’m right here.”
Daniil settles in the chair beside my bed. He sits like a sentinel who has no intention of leaving his post.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
He glances at the wall clock. “Five hours.” His thumb traces the back of my hand again, as if that small motion keeps him from unraveling. “They took you straight to surgery.” His jaw tightens, then unlocks with forced calm. “The bullet missed everything that matters.”
“What happened?” The question shakes out of me before I can stop it. The last thing I remember is marble under my knees and voices bending into a roar. The ceiling had been too far away. My hands were sticky with blood that wouldn’t stop. Then nothing.
His eyes darken. He looks at our hands instead of my face when he answers. “Viktor fired. The shot hit you.” He drags in a breath like it sticks to his ribs.
His eyes burn with a storm I cannot read. “You should not have done that,” he says, his voice soft but cut through with iron.
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You stepped in front of me.” His gaze pins me in place. “That bullet was meant for me, Naomi. And you—” His jaw flexes, the words sticking like glass. “You nearly gave your life to stop it.”
The memory returns in a rush, seizing my throat in its grip. “I couldn’t let him take you. I couldn’t.”
His hand comes up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing at the dampness clinging to my cheek. “You saved my life,” he admits, the confession raw, drawn from some place he doesn’t open for anyone. His breath shakes. “No one has ever done that for me. Not like this.”
I try to answer, but emotion crushes my voice. The tears come again, thick and unstoppable.
He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine, and his tone changes, gentler now, and touched with awe. “I’m proud of you. So proud it breaks me to say it.” His thumb slides gently across my cheek. “You are braver than anyone I have ever known.”
Then his voice hardens, sharp as steel. “But you will never do that again. Do you understand me? I will not survive it a second time.”
My chest aches, but I nod because I know he needs the promise, even if I can’t swear my instincts will obey it.
“Did you…” My voice falters, the question trembling between us. I want to know, yet I fear the answer will tear open another wound.
“Yes.” His reply is steady, unflinching. “I ended him.”
Relief and sorrow collide inside me. Part of me feels triumphant that the shadow hanging over us has finally been cut down.
Yet another part grieves that Daniil’s hands were forced to carry out such a brutal end against his own blood.
My eyes linger on his face, tracing the lines etched deeper since I first met him, and on the mouth that has been merciless to the world but endlessly gentle with me.
To others, he is untouchable, unstoppable.
But I have seen the man behind the legend.
Right now, it is his humanity I crave most, the fragile truth that he is not made of stone, and that he is mine to hold.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words feeling too small.
He lifts his head and studies me with that intensity that made me feel seen from the first moment he walked into my world. “You do not thank me for that,” he says, his voice rough. “There was no other ending.”
A soft knock, then a man in a white coat steps in with the nurse.
His presence fills the room in a quiet, authoritative way, his posture straight but not unkind.
His hair is silver at the temples, his expression composed, and his eyes hold the steady calm that have seen the worst nights and guided people through them.
“I am Dr. Levin,” he says, and I like his voice at once.
Steady and gentle without being sweet. “You had a frightening night, but I have good news. We managed your bleeding quickly, and scans show no internal damage. The bullet grazed along ribs eight and nine, which is painful, however it spared your lung and did not threaten the pregnancy. Your vitals have stabilized well.”
The language soothes and steadies me. He gestures to the nurse, who hands him a tablet.