Chapter 37 The Dream
The Dream
—Maksym—
Five months later
The house we moved into wasn’t an estate—but it wasn’t modest either. Three stories of sharp lines, dark glass, concrete and steel. Modern. Controlled. Expensive without showing off.
A gated driveway, discreet cameras, reinforced doors. From the outside it looked clean and quiet. From the inside, it was built like a fortress.
The top floor belonged to us—floor-to-ceiling windows, our bedroom facing the trees.
Across the hall waited the nursery for our son, Anton.
Warm light, pale wood, a crib already set in place.
One wing was set aside for her mother. There were guest rooms too—and rooms for the men who rotated security, keeping constant watch over the property and our family.
It wasn’t a palace.
But it fit a Pakhan.
The backyard opened into a stretch of untamed woods, the trees dense and watchful. Above them, the sky was still soft with early autumn warmth, carrying the faint sweetness of a fading summer.
Kira and her mother were lounging on two long chairs by the patio. Irina was absorbed in a well-worn paperback, glasses perched on her nose. Kira had one arm slung over her round belly, sun-kissed skin glowing in the soft light as she tilted her head back to catch the warmth.
I was manning the grill, the scent of sizzling meat rising around me, a cold beer in hand. I glanced over at them and couldn’t stop the grin from tugging at my mouth. This was peace. My kind of heaven.
I put down the tongs and wandered over, dropping to one knee beside her. I pressed a kiss to her taut stomach. “What’s Anton eating today, huh?”
Kira opened one eye lazily. “Your massive child is still inside me, so I decide what he eats. And right now? I want a steak the size of your ego.”
“Your wish, my queen,” I said, mock bowing before getting back to the grill.
She huffed a laugh as I walked away.
I took a sip of my beer, watching the smoke curl upward in lazy spirals, when I felt her behind me.
“Sit down before I carry you there myself,” I muttered, checking on her over my shoulder.
She attempted to wrap her arms around me from behind, but her belly got in the way. “I’m bored. And you smell good.”
“That’s because I’m cooking your steak dreams into reality.”
She laughed, and then suddenly—
“Oh.”
I spun around. “What?”
Her eyes went wide. She was looking down at her legs.
“I swear I’m not peeing myself,” she said quickly, her voice edged with panic and disbelief.
“Did your water just break?”
“I—I think so. I don’t know. I still had a month left!”
“Okay. Okay. Let’s go.” I grabbed her arm gently, already scanning for the car keys.
Irina jumped up from her chair, her book falling to the grass. “Oh my goodness, I’ll get the hospital bag! And don’t worry about the food, just go! This is exciting!”
“Exciting’s one word for it,” I muttered, steering Kira toward the car as calmly as I could.
Within minutes, we were on the road, speeding toward the city.
The ride started out fine, but then the contractions began—slow, then sharp, tearing the calm to pieces.
Kira sat in the passenger seat, gripping the edge of her seat with white knuckles.
One of our cars trailed behind—my men, of course.
I couldn’t go anywhere alone these days.
“Malaya, breathe,” I said, reaching over to rub her thigh. “You’re doing great. We’re going to meet him soon.”
“If this car slows down even once,” she said, eyes blazing, “I will personally remove your kidneys.”
“Speeding it is,” I said, gripping the wheel tighter.
When we reached the hospital, I didn’t bother with the parking lot.
I pulled straight into the ambulance lane and slammed on the brakes right in front of the entrance.
I jumped out, yanked open her door, and helped her out, her arm clutching mine as another contraction hit.
One of my men from the second car was already there, slipping into the driver’s seat behind me.
I didn’t have to say a word—they knew the drill.
The hospital staff clocked us the moment we rushed in.
Whether it was the urgency in our steps or my face they recognized, I didn’t care—as long as they moved fast. And they did.
Within minutes, we had a room. Nurses hovered.
Monitors beeped. Kira’s breathing quickened.
I paced the length of the room, again and again, for hours. Eight of them, to be exact.
And then, finally—finally—we saw him.
Our son.
They laid him on her chest, this tiny, red, squirming miracle. Kira wept as she kissed his forehead, whispering his name.
“Anton,” she breathed.
I leaned in and kissed them both, wrapping my arms around her, pressing my lips to her damp hair.
My heart felt like it was bursting. She was the most incredible woman in existence—not just the world, but every fucking corner of it.
The strongest soul I’d ever known. The bravest thing that ever drew breath.
She was my reason. My life. My everything.
It was as if reality had slipped into a dream.
After everything we’d endured—the blood, the fear, the darkness—we had arrived at this moment.
She was safe. Radiant. Unbreakable. And Anton—born too soon, but screaming like he was already declaring war—came into the world pink, furious, alive. Ours. My boy. My legacy.
But the moment was short. A nurse appeared and gently explained they needed to run checks. Premature. Routine, she said. I didn’t want to let go, but Kira nodded, and we watched as they took him away.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes. I didn’t even try to blink them away. I held her tighter, kissed her again and again.
“What can I get you?” I asked, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face, voice rough. “You still haven’t eaten. Sushi? Red caviar? Champagne? Tell me, love—whatever you want, it’s yours.”
She laughed softly, exhausted but glowing. “Honestly? I’d kill for a pizza. Maybe with Parma ham.”
“Done,” I said, already pulling out my phone and placing the order through the app. “It’ll be here soon.”
While we waited, I brought her water, tucked the blanket around her legs, adjusted it twice just to have an excuse to touch her. I couldn’t stop staring—my girl, the mother of my son, the only thing that ever made sense in this blood-soaked life.
Eventually, the delivery arrived. I stood up to go fetch it, brushing a kiss to her temple.
As I stepped out into the hallway, one of my men was standing guard just outside the door. A nurse brushed past me on her way in—her face familiar, though I couldn’t place it. I didn’t stop to think about it. I just kept walking.
I grabbed the warm box from the courier and hurried back through the corridor, phone still in hand, half-watching the seconds crawl across the screen—not that they mattered. Everything outside that room had stopped meaning anything the moment I saw our son.
Soon, I would be bringing them home—the woman who carried my child, my son, the small family I never thought I’d have.
It still felt unreal. Like I’d fallen headfirst into someone else’s dream and hadn’t yet woken up.
I’d never known I wanted this—never dared to imagine it.
But now that it was here, it was all I wanted.
I needed to pinch myself.
What the fuck did I do to deserve this?
And still, beneath the glow of it all, something sharp coiled in my chest. I’d have to step down.
Soon. Find someone else to wear the crown.
I didn’t want Anton growing up surrounded by the kind of men I worked with.
The kind of enemies that came with power.
I wouldn’t raise my son in fear. I wouldn’t want him to live the way Kira did—under constant watch, with a ruthless father and guards shadowing every step of his childhood.
I pushed open the hospital door with my shoulder, still cradling the pizza box like it held something sacred.
Kira was asleep.
Huh. That was strange. I’d only been gone five minutes.
She lay on her back, one hand resting gently over her belly, her face turned slightly toward the window. Her features were soft, undisturbed. She looked peaceful.
I stepped closer, slowly, like I didn’t want to wake her. Reached out. Brushed my fingers across her shoulder.
She felt warm. But wrong.
Too still.
I glanced up at the nurse. She was standing near the wall. Not doing anything. Just staring—vacant, dazed. Her uniform rumpled. Her hands motionless.
Something about her expression sent a chill along the back of my neck.
I set the pizza down quietly and looked back to Kira.
“Did she fall asleep?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
A heavy silence blanketed the room. The type that hummed behind the ears and pressed down on the chest like drowning.
Something crawled down my spine.
“Is she okay?” I asked. My voice cracked. “Did she just fall asleep?”
The nurse didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Her lips parted slightly.
I looked at her again—and something clicked.
I knew that face.
Not from the hospital. Not from now.
The dacha. The woman with the judge.
The one who wept when I killed him.
“Fate brought us together,” she whispered. “He took my child. I took his.”
My blood turned to ice.
I crossed the room and grabbed her by the arms, shook her hard. “What the fuck did you do to her?!”
She didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. Just stared through me, silent tears cutting down her face.
I turned back to Kira again.
The lights in the room seemed brighter now, harsh against her skin. Machines beeped softly beside her. A breeze from the overhead vent stirred the curtain slightly, brushing the edge of her blanket like a ghost.
My hands moved without thinking—I touched her again, harder now. Her skin was soft. Her mouth parted just slightly, like she’d fallen asleep mid-sentence. Her lashes didn’t flutter. Her chest didn’t rise.
Nothing.
Panic surged through my blood like acid.
She wasn’t breathing.
“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no—”
I screamed for help. Shouted until my throat went raw, until the halls echoed with it.
Doors flew open. White coats rushed in. A crash cart followed. Hands pushed me back.
“She did something—she fucking did something to her!” I yelled, pointing at the nurse.
Security came. One of the guards grabbed her, yanking her away. She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Her face was soaked with tears, eyes hollow, as if her soul had already vacated the room.
“Step back,” one of the doctors ordered. “Let us work.”
I stumbled back, barely breathing, my whole body rigid with terror.
They tore the blanket away from her, cutting her hospital gown open to expose her chest. One nurse placed defibrillator pads on her skin, while another injected something into her IV line with shaking hands.
Someone else began chest compressions—rhythmic, desperate.
They counted aloud, their voices sharp and loud.
Another doctor fixed an oxygen mask over her face, adjusting the flow, forcing air into her lungs with a hiss.
Another nurse checked her pupils with a light, her jaw tight with panic.
Still nothing.
“Charging,” someone said.
The room filled with the high-pitched whine of the defibrillator.
“Clear!”
Her body jolted. Once. Then again.
No response.
They tried again.
More injections. Stronger compressions. Another shock. Another.
Every attempt was met with silence.
I stood frozen, helpless, as they fought to bring her back. Every second felt like an hour. Every beep a knife.
And then the monitor flatlined.
The doctor stared at the screen, then at the others.
“Time of death—”
“No,” I breathed.
I didn’t hear the rest. Didn’t care.
My legs moved on their own. I staggered to the bed and sat beside her. Lifted her into my arms.
She was limp. Her head fell against my shoulder like she was asleep.
I brushed her hair back. Touched her cheek. Her lips. Her pulse point.
Nothing.
“Come back,” I begged. “Please, Malaya. Come back. I’m just a monster without you.”
The room blurred.
“I don’t know how to breathe without you,” I choked, pulling her closer, memorizing every line of her face.
And then I broke.
I held her like I could will her heart to start again. Like I could trade mine for hers. Like if I kissed her hard enough, whispered her name enough times, she’d open her eyes and grin at me with that smug little smirk.
But she didn’t.
And I cried. Loud. Shaking. Wretched. The kind of tears that rip open old wounds and gut you raw.
I hadn’t cried like that since I was nine, but now I howled like an animal.
The pain wasn’t just in my chest—it spread through my entire body, seeping into bone, into muscle, into every breath I tried to take. It kept growing, second by second, like something inside me was tearing wider, deeper, with no end to it.
It wasn’t just pain. It was everything at once—grief, rage, loss—so heavy it felt like it would crush me from the inside out.
“You can’t be gone. You can’t,” I whispered, arms wrapped tight around her like I could fuse us together. “You’re supposed to see him grow. Laugh with him. Fight with me about what we name our second.”
“Malaya, please,” I sobbed. “Don’t leave me to raise him in a world without you.”
Silence.
“I love you,” I said into her hair. “That’s all I know how to do.” I kissed her again and again—her mouth, her cheek, her closed eyes—like love could shock her back to life.
I sat there until they ripped her out of my arms.
Hands grabbed my shoulders.
I snarled, twisting, shoving back. Someone shouted my name. Another voice ordered me to let go. I didn’t. I couldn’t. I fought like they were trying to rip my heart out with their bare hands—because they were.
They dragged me backward inch by inch while I clawed forward, fingers slipping on her hospital gown, my grip tearing loose.
“No,” I roared. “Don’t touch her. She’s mine.”
The guards pinned my arms. Forced me down. Held me as they lifted her from the bed and wheeled her away.
I watched her disappear through the door.
One moment, I had a reason to live.
The next, I was still breathing—but nothing inside me was alive.