26. Cora
26
CORA
T he beeping of the monitors is the only sound.
Ivan lies motionless in the hospital bed, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths, the only movement in the otherwise still room. His face is pale, his lashes dark against his skin, the deep bruising along his ribs and jaw a reminder of how close I came to losing him.
I haven’t left his side since they brought him here.
I reach out, brushing my fingertips over his bandaged hand, needing to feel him.
He doesn’t stir.
Something tightens in my chest, the same weight that’s been sitting here since the moment he collapsed into my arms.
I can’t do anything to fix him. No first aid kit, no easy solution. All I can is wait.
I bite my lip hard, fighting the tears that threaten to spill over.
The door opens. Elena and Veronica come sit beside me. Maxim and Dmitri talk in low voices in the doorway.
Veronica stretches out in the chair, arms crossed, one boot resting on the other knee. Elena is more composed but I see the understanding in her eyes when she looks at me.
I look back at Ivan, at the man who claimed me, who taught me how to fight, who refused to let me go even when it would have been easier for him. He locked me up to keep me safe. But it was him at risk all this time.
I squeeze his hand, willing him to wake up.
I don’t remember closing my eyes. I don’t remember allowing myself to rest. But exhaustion has a way of catching up to you, even when you fight it, even when you convince yourself you can go just a little longer.
My body has finally given in, curled uncomfortably in the stiff chair beside Ivan’s hospital bed, my hand still wrapped around his.
My body is sore from being in the same position for too long, my muscles stiff as I shift slightly.
“We should talk about Chicago,” Dmitri is saying. There’s no urgency to his words, no emotion—just cold practicality.
There’s a brief pause before Maxim responds, his tone more thoughtful, more calculating.
“The city’s up for grabs,” he muses, like they’re discussing a business acquisition, not an entire empire. “It’s his if he wants it.”
They aren’t just talking about business. They’re talking about his future.
A future that won’t include me. I can’t go back there, I just can’t.
Of course, he would go, wouldn’t he?
I want to believe I know him better than that.
But a part of me—the part that’s spent years learning not to trust, not to expect anything from anyone—whispers otherwise. I’m alone. I deserve to be alone. That’s always been the case, right?
The silence in the room stretches, a long, heavy pause that seems to hold more weight than the conversation itself.
And then?—
A deep, gravel-rough voice cuts through the quiet.
“No.”
The entire room freezes.
My breath stutters, my pulse a deafening roar in my ears.
It’s not Maxim. It’s not Dmitri.
It’s Ivan.
My head snaps toward the bed, heart slamming against my ribs as I push forward, straightening in my chair. Ivan is awake.
His eyes are barely open, heavy-lidded and fogged with pain, but there’s no hesitation in them.
“I don’t want Chicago.”
Maxim and Dmitri exchange a glance, but I barely see them. I only see him.
“I stay here with her.”
My lungs seize, my fingers trembling where they’re still wrapped around his hand. I can’t speak. I can’t even breathe.
He’s choosing me.
Not power. Not an empire. Me.
I feel like I might break apart entirely, but before I can say anything—before I can do anything—his tired, blue eyes shift toward me.
The air in the room shifts, the weight of the last few days pressing down on my chest.
I should say something. I should breathe. I should?—
“Come here, printsessa.”
His fingers are warm, strong despite the pain radiating from his body.
I can’t stop staring at him. At the bruises, the bandages, the paleness of his skin.
A single tear slips down my cheek.
He notices. Of course.
His hand moves, his knuckles grazing my skin as he cups my face, thumb brushing away the tear before it has a chance to fall.
“You scared me,” I whisper.
His lips curve slightly, a ghost of a smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You scare me every damn day.”
“Me? How?”
“I’m scared I might lose you.” His voice is low, rough.
I stare at him, feeling the weight of those words settle over me, sinking into my bones.
Across the room, Dmitri clears his throat.
“So,” he says, shifting slightly, hands in his pockets. “About Chicago? You turning down an entire city?”
Ivan doesn’t even look at him.
He doesn’t look away from me.
His fingers remain around mine, keeping me from slipping into doubt, into disbelief. “I already have everything I could ever want.”
A slow smirk curves Maxim’s lips as he leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
“Love has made you soft,” he muses, eyes glittering with something almost entertained. “You’re no good to us soft.”
Ivan finally looks at him, and the air shifts, going sharp and dangerous. His cold blue eyes flicker with something lethal, something terrifyingly controlled.
“Try me,” he says. His voice is quiet, smooth—deadly. “I could kill you with one finger.”
Maxim chuckles, unshaken. “Lucky for me,” he drawls, glancing at our joined hands, “your fingers seem a little occupied.”
Ivan doesn’t dignify that with a response.
Neither do I.
Because I don’t care about Chicago anymore.
I don’t care about Maxim’s teasing or Dmitri’s quiet amusement.
I care about one thing.
He’s not leaving.
I exhale, my lungs finally unlocking, my entire body uncoiling from the knot it’s been twisted into since the moment they started talking about Chicago.
He chose me.
Maxim and Dmitri exchange a glance, some silent conversation passing between them, then they both turn toward the door.
“We’ll leave you to recover,” Maxim says.
Dmitri just shakes his head as Veronica and Elena join him.
“Take care of her,” Elena says, pointing at Ivan. “Got it?”
He nods. “Of course.”
The door clicks shut behind them all.
And suddenly, we’re alone.
I turn back to Ivan, a thousand things on the tip of my tongue.
But before I can say a single word?—
He pulls me onto the bed, one strong arm tugging me against his side, careful but insistent.
I barely have time to brace myself before he shifts, his forehead pressing against mine, his fingers threading into my hair, sliding down my spine, settling at the base of my neck.
A shiver rolls through me, my entire body going still.
His voice is rough.
“I told you,” he murmurs. “You’re mine. And I never give up what’s mine.”
The exhaustion hits all at once.
His lips brush my forehead, slow, deliberate, and the tension that’s been living in my body for weeks finally starts to unravel.
“Rest, printsessa,” he murmurs against my skin.
I should argue. I should tell him he’s the one in a hospital bed, recovering from multiple gunshot wounds, that he should be the one resting. But I can’t find the energy to fight, not anymore.
Still, I try.
I tilt my head up slightly, my eyes half-lidded, heavy, but determined.
“I should be taking care of you.”
Ivan smirks, just a little, the amusement flickering in his tired blue eyes.
“You think I’ll let you lift a finger?”
He shifts, his fingers brushing through my hair, moving slowly, methodically, like he’s memorizing every strand. His other hand rests on my back, his thumb stroking in calming, steady circles.
I don’t respond, because I don’t need to.
The exhaustion pulls me deeper, dragging me toward sleep, but just as I start to drift, his voice cuts through the quiet.
“You’re safe now. We’re safe.”
I barely manage to tighten my grip on his shirt.
His breath is warm against my hair, his body solid beside mine.
“I’m glad you’re not going to Chicago,” I say quietly.
“No need,” he replies. “I bought you a restaurant in New York and it would be a hell of a commute from there.”