Chapter 28
ANDREI
Hospitals have a way of stripping men down to the most vulnerable, most terrified versions of themselves. They are a great equalizer. Everyone bleeds the same. Everyone can lose someone they can’t replace.
I stand in the hallway outside her room and keep my face neutral, wanting to avoid anyone catching me in a moment of weakness.
Even now, I must keep it together. My men are stationed farther down the corridor, out of the way but close enough that no one could get within ten feet of me. My safety is, as always, handled.
The threat inside the building is low. The threat outside it is another matter, but the perimeter is covered. Petya has two teams on rotating shifts circling the building until we’re cleared to leave. I can have a car at the entrance in under thirty seconds if anything happens.
Unfortunately, none of that changes what happened. Alina could have been taken today. Some asshole tried to grab her, and that’s why she’s here.
She shouldn’t have been on that street. She shouldn’t have been exposed, even for an hour, even with security. I knew that when I let her go. I knew the risk. I told myself that everything would be fine.
This is just as much my fault as it is her attacker’s.
Now he’s nowhere to be found, of course. The attacker’s colleagues scooped up his dying body and drove away before my men could stop them. I’m furious that these bastards have slipped out of my grasp again. At least her guards got the plate number. It may lead to nothing, but it’s a starting place.
A doctor has already come out to speak to me.
He clearly chose his words carefully, respectful in a way that indicated he knew exactly who I am.
He told me Alina wasn’t badly injured and probably fainted from fear more than anything.
He told me there was no sign of head trauma.
He told me her pulse stabilized quickly. He told me she’d been very lucky.
Lucky. I didn’t correct him, but none of this felt very lucky to me. The only ones lucky in this situation are the attackers who drove away. They took fire from my men, but it could have been much worse for them if they stuck around.
My hands are clasped behind my back and I can feel the tightness in my knuckles.
I can feel the pressure in my chest. It won’t ease up even though the crisis is technically over.
I haven’t gone into the room yet. I don’t know if I’m waiting for her to wake up, or if I’m waiting to calm down enough to face her without screaming.
I know none of this is her fault. She doesn’t deserve my misplaced wrath.
The door opens and a nurse steps out with a clipboard pressed against her chest. She’s young, I realize. I wish someone older were taking care of Alina. Someone more experienced. I don’t want to hold her age against her, but Alina should be receiving the best care money can buy.
“Mr. Markov?” she asks quietly.
I nod once.
“She’s waking up,” she says. “You can go in.”
I start to move, then she shifts her weight like she’s remembered something. Her eyes flick down the page, then back up to me.
“One thing before you do,” she adds, tone gentle in a way I don’t like. “We’ll need to confirm follow-up care. As her fiancé, do you know who her OB-GYN is?”
Her words stop me in my tracks. Her OB-GYN? I don’t know much about women’s health, but I know that’s a doctor who handles female issues, including pregnancies.
The nurse clears her throat awkwardly, like she thinks maybe I didn’t hear her. I turn on her, trying to keep my temper in check.
“What did you say?” I ask.
Her expression shifts slightly. She’s confused now, and perhaps a little alarmed. She flips the clipboard a fraction, checking her notes.
“Her OB-GYN,” she repeats. “We just need the doctor’s name for her records.”
She’s pregnant.
My throat closes hard enough that it takes effort to breathe normally.
I don’t react the way I want to. I don’t let anything show.
I have years of practice at that. Still, heat flares low in my gut, immediate and possessive, so fast it makes me angry.
My fingers flex once behind my back, slow and controlled, because I don’t trust them to stay still.
“We aren’t seeing any complications with the baby. We’re just following standard protocols.”
I force my jaw to loosen before it locks tight. I swallow once. My throat feels dry.
“I don’t know,” I say, and my voice is deadly calm. “She doesn’t share that kind of information with me.”
The nurse blinks at that. Her face changes in the smallest way, like she’s suddenly aware that she just stepped into something private and dangerous. She recovers quickly, though, taking a step back from me.
“Okay,” she says softly. “We can ask her when she’s more alert.”
“Do that,” I answer.
She hesitates, then nods and turns back toward the room like she’s relieved to get out of my presence. Poor girl had no idea what she was walking into.
I stay in the hallway for a while longer, staring at the closed door, as the angry thoughts start to fester. She kept it from me. Something so big and so important. How long has she known? Does she even know? Maybe it’s just as much a shock to her as it is to me.
Do I even have a right to be angry with her if she did know? After all, it’s her body. She’s not my property. It’s her choice what she does and doesn’t tell me. Then again, if she did know she’s pregnant, she’s purposely put herself and our child in danger by leaving the penthouse.
Our baby.
My baby.
My Alina.
I hate the possessive instinct so much I almost laugh at myself. I don’t own her, I remind myself. This wedding is just a farce to keep her safe. No matter how many times I’ve had her, no matter how many times she’s slept in my bed, she isn’t mine to keep.
The pressure in my chest tightens again, and this time it’s not anger. It’s something heavier. Grief, maybe. The realization that having a child in the chaos of my life is a horrible idea.
One final thought occurs before I can make myself go in to see her. Someone knew exactly where Alina would be. They were going to use her as leverage to draw me out.
That ambush wasn’t random. It was too coordinated. Too bold. It happened in the middle of the day on a fairly popular street. She met her friend at a place they’ve been to many times before. Who would know that?
I exhale slowly through my nose and finally step into the room, unsure of what I’m going to say or even if I can control my anger at all.
She looks so small in the hospital bed, more fragile than I’ve ever seen her before.
The lighting is harsh and unforgiving, bleaching her skin paler than usual.
There’s a faint bruise blooming on her arm where the man grabbed her.
It’s already purple at the edges. I can’t stop my eyes from going to it.
My hands itch with the need to break something.
She turns her head slowly when she senses me, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. She blinks slowly, then focuses.
“Andrei?” she asks quietly, like she’s not sure I’m really here.
Hearing my name from her like that feels wrong. It’s too intimate, especially in the wake of the pregnancy news. She doesn’t love me. She doesn’t trust me enough to share the news of our baby with me.
I stop beside the bed and look down at her without letting my face give me away. She watches me closely, her eyes so tired.
“You need to get some rest,” I tell her carefully. “You went through a significant amount of trauma today.”
She only nods and swallows hard, contorting her face when she does.
“Do you need water?” I ask. “I can call for a nurse.”
“I’m okay,” she says in the same small voice. “Just stay with me for a while, okay?”
“Of course,” I say, sitting in a reclining chair next to her and grabbing her hand. “We should probably talk about the baby.”
She assesses me without an ounce of surprise. She must have read the news on my face the second I walked in the door. Instead, she just nods slowly and then looks back up at the ceiling.
“What would you like to discuss?” she answers, almost coldly.
I don’t answer right away because if I open my mouth, I don’t trust what will come out. Accusation. Relief. Something ugly. Something needy. Something I’d regret.
“I…” I falter, not even sure where to begin.
Her eyes close for a brief moment, like she’s bracing herself. When they open again, there’s a flicker of something there. Not fear, exactly. Something closer to resignation.
“I didn’t—” she starts.
“Stop,” I cut in, too quickly.
The word comes out colder than I meant it to. Hurt flashes across her face, quick and contained. She turns her eyes away from me and stares at the sheet instead, fingers tightening around the edge.
Guilt stabs me immediately, but I don’t soften. I can’t. If I soften now, I’ll lose control of the conversation and myself.
I stare at her for a long second, and my mind is moving faster than her heartrate monitor. A baby changes the rules. It doesn’t matter what I want. It doesn’t matter what she wants. It matters what the world will do to us once it knows.
A child is not just love. It is a target.
Alina’s voice comes again, smaller now. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“I know,” I answer sadly. “You didn’t trust me. You didn’t trust us. And I can’t even blame you. I can’t be angry at you for any of this. I think I just need some time.”
Her eyes lift back to my face, startled. “To process?” she asks.
I don’t answer right away. No, that doesn’t feel right. I feel like I’m processing the news just fine. The problem is, I’m having to process a million things. I’m processing the next eighteen years and how complicated everything is going to become.
Instead, I do what I always do when I’m drowning. I shut down. I straighten slowly, letting distance do the work my control is failing to do, and I keep my voice flat.
“You’ll be moved back to the penthouse as soon as you’re discharged,” I tell her. “And I’m having your security doubled. Nothing like this can ever happen again.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, but she stops herself. She’s watching carefully, like she sees beneath the mask and she knows I’m hiding my true emotions.
“Andrei,” she says again, and there’s something pleading there now. “Please. Talk to me.”
I hold her gaze for one second too long, and I almost do it. I almost tell her the truth. That my chest feels tight in a way I don’t like. That I’m furious and relieved and terrified all at once. That I can’t decide if I want to shout at her or hold her so close she can’t breathe.
None of that changes the problem. I can’t keep her safe if I can’t think clearly, and I can’t think clearly with her looking at me like that. So I do the only thing I know how to do.
I turn away.