Sofia
I’ve been in labor for fourteen hours, and I’m starting to understand why people describe childbirth as a form of torture.
The contractions are relentless. Wave after wave of pain that makes everything else I’ve endured seem manageable by comparison. I’ve been shot at. I’ve killed a man. I’ve faced down assassins and board members and my own dying father.
None of it compares to this.
“You’re doing great,” Sergei says for what must be the hundredth time. His hand is in mine, has been since this started. I’m gripping so hard I know I’m leaving bruises, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
“I hate you,” I gasp between contractions. “I hate you so much right now.”
“I know.” There’s something soft in his voice. Understanding. “You can hate me all you want.”
Another contraction hits. I scream, my entire body tensing against the pain. It feels like I’m being ripped apart from the inside.
“Breathe,” the doctor says. “Sofia, you need to breathe through it.”
I try. I really do. But the pain is overwhelming, consuming everything else. I should have taken the epidural. But no, I was Sofia Sokolov. I didn’t need it.
“I swear to God, if we ever do this again, you better jab me with that fucking needle yourself,” I hiss.
Sergei’s other hand comes up to cup my face. “Look at me,” he says. “Just look at me.”
I do. His blue eyes lock on mine.
“Breathe with me,” he says. He takes a slow breath in, then out. “Come on. With me.”
I match his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. The contraction doesn’t lessen, but having something to focus on helps. He’s so calm. Steady. Always.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s good, buntarka.”
I don’t feel rebellious. I feel tortured. But that one sweet sentiment gives me strength.
The hours blur together. Pain and breathing and Sergei’s hand in mine. At some point, I stop tracking time. Stop thinking about anything except getting through the next contraction.
“Okay, Sofia,” the doctor says. “You’re fully dilated. On the next contraction, I need you to push.”
Terror floods through me. This is it. This is actually happening.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, buntarka.” Sergei’s voice is firm. “You can do this.”
He presses his forehead against mine. It’s like he infuses me with his strength. I feel it. I take it all and brace myself.
The next contraction hits, and I’m bearing down with everything I have.
“Again,” the doctor says. “Push again.”
I give it my all.
“I can see the head,” the doctor says. “One more big push, Sofia. Come on.”
I grip Sergei’s hand so hard I’m certain I’m breaking bones. I push with everything I have left.
And then I hear it. A cry. High-pitched and angry and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
“You have a very healthy, angry son,” the doctor announces.
I collapse back against the pillows, gasping. Tears stream down my face.
But there’s no time to process. The contractions haven’t stopped.
“Baby two is coming,” the doctor says. “Sofia, let’s do this again.”
“I can’t,” I sob.
“You can.” Sergei’s voice cuts through the fog of exhaustion. “One more time. Just one more.”
I scream, not caring who hears. It somehow lessens the pain.
“Almost there,” the doctor encourages. “One more push.”
I give it everything I have. Every last bit of strength.
Another cry fills the room.
I’m crying now. Full, ugly sobs that I can’t control. Two boys. Two perfect, healthy boys.
The room erupts into controlled chaos. Nurses moving around, cleaning the babies, checking vitals. I try to focus, try to see what’s happening, but I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.
I want to hold my babies. To see them. To make sure they’re really okay.
And then I see him.
Sergei is standing across the room. A nurse has placed both babies in his arms. One in each arm, both wrapped in blue blankets. He’s staring down at them with an expression I’ve never seen before.
He looks terrified. And completely, utterly undone.
His eyes are wet. His hands—those hands that have killed, that have broken bones and pulled triggers—are cradling our sons with infinite gentleness. Hands that saved me from the worst moment of my life.
There’s no going back. I will never be Sofia Baranova again.
“Sergei,” I whisper.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the room.
A man who’s never been soft with anyone, being impossibly gentle with the two tiny lives in his arms.
“Come here,” I say. “Please.”
He crosses to the bed carefully, like he’s afraid of dropping them.
“They’re perfect,” he says, his voice rough. “They’re so fucking perfect, Sofia.”
I reach out and touch the closest one’s face. His skin is impossibly soft. His eyes are closed, but I can see the dark lashes against his cheeks.
“Which one is this?” I ask.
“Baby A,” the nurse says. “He came first. By eight minutes.”
“Do you have names picked out?” another nurse asks.
Sergei and I look at each other. We’ve discussed names, but we could never agree. We had a short list, but nothing felt right.
“Anton,” I say suddenly. “And Kirill.”
Sergei’s eyes widen slightly. Then something soft crosses his face. “Anton and Kirill,” he repeats.
“The next one can be Nelson,” I say with a soft smile.
“It’s perfect.” He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold on the babies. “Anton Sergeyovich Sokolov. And Kirill Sergeyovich Sokolov.” He leans into a thick Russian accent when he says their names.
The Russian way. Son of Sergei. It’s traditional, and it feels right.
“Can I hold them?” I ask.
The nurse helps Sergei transfer one baby to my arms. I look down at the tiny face, at the features that are somehow already so distinct. He has Sergei’s nose. My chin. A perfect blend of both of us.
“Hi, Anton,” I whisper. “I’m your mama.”
He makes a small sound, his face scrunching up. My heart swells so much it hurts.
Sergei is still holding Kirill, staring down at him like he can’t quite believe the baby is real. “I promise,” he says quietly in Russian, “I promise I’ll keep you safe. Both of you. No one will ever hurt you.”
I believe him.
He’ll protect them with everything he has.
And he has a lot.
“We did it,” I say, looking up at him.
“You did it.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “You were incredible.”
“They’re going to have everything,” he says. “Everything we didn’t.”
I know what he means. Safety. Love. Parents who come home. A childhood that isn’t defined by violence and fear.
We can give them that. Together.
The nurse approaches again. “I need to take them for a few tests,” she says. “Just routine checks. We’ll bring them back in about an hour.”
I don’t want to let go. But I know they need to be examined.
Sergei and I hand over both babies reluctantly. I watch them being wheeled out of the room, my heart following them.
“They’ll be fine,” Sergei says, reading my mind. “Kirill will be with them.”
“You know the hospital hates us,” I say.
We showed up with eight guards. Anton and Nelson were ridiculous. They wouldn’t let the doctor in the room until I threatened they’d be delivering my babies. And that about sent Sergei into a fit.
“They’re being paid well,” Sergei says dismissively.
Now that the adrenaline is fading, the exhaustion is overwhelming. “I’m so tired.”
“Sleep.” He pulls the chair closer to the bed, his hand finding mine again. “I’ll stay right here.”
I don’t argue. I couldn’t if I wanted to.
My eyes drift closed. I’m asleep within seconds, his hand still holding mine.
When I wake up, the room is dim. Sergei is exactly where he was before, in the chair beside my bed. But now he’s holding both babies again, one in each arm. He’s talking to them quietly in Russian.
I don’t understand all the words, but I catch enough. He’s telling them about their grandmother Elena. About how brave she was. How much she would have loved them.
My heart breaks and heals at the same time.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He looks up. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“Sore. Exhausted. Happy.” I push myself up slightly. “How long was I out?”
“Three hours. They brought the boys back about an hour ago. Both completely healthy.”
He looks down at them. “I couldn’t put them down.”
I understand completely. If I had the strength, I’d be holding them too.
“Which one is which?” I ask.
“This is Anton.” He indicates the baby in his left arm. “And this is Kirill. Anton has a birthmark on his left shoulder. That’s how we can tell them apart for now.”
I file that information away. I can’t wait to learn every detail about them. Every distinguishing feature.
Sergei stands carefully and transfers Kirill to my arms.
“Hi, baby,” I murmur. “Hi, Kirill.”
His eyes flutter open.
I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop memorizing every detail of his face.
Sergei settles back into the chair, still holding Anton. We sit like that for a long time, both of us just holding our sons. Not talking. Just being.
They won’t grow up the way we did.