Chapter 38
Anya
Maksim’s chest is warm and comforting on the way back home. We’re in the back seat, my head resting against his shoulder while his arm wraps around me as if I might disappear at any moment.
He shed the heavy bulletproof vest and weapons as soon as he confirmed all the men in the warehouse were dead.
After that, he didn’t let go of me. He climbed into the back seat with me, leaving Vladimir to take the passenger seat next to Igor, who drove in silence.
No one said anything—everyone exhausted and still processing the night we’d had.
“They’re ready for us,” Vladimir said, breaking the silence.
“Good.”
“Where are we going?” I asked quietly against his shoulder.
“To a medical facility.”
“Maksim…”
“No, Svetlana.” He cut me off and shifted to look at me.
“Don’t even think about saying you’re fine.
You’re limping so badly you can barely put your foot on the ground, and you hit your head when the car flipped.
” He clenched his jaw. “You’re alive, yes.
But we won’t know if you’re okay until the doctor says you’re okay. ”
I could argue—I’d even want to. All I want right now is a long, hot bath to wash all this blood off me. And then sleep. Sleep for two whole days. But I can’t do that. There’s something more important, more urgent, that depends entirely on me.
My baby.
I remember my body aching as I dragged myself out of the car, how I twisted to keep a punch from hitting my belly, and the fight with that huge man I killed.
That I killed.
The phrase echoes inside me, but I don’t let it take root. The loudest thought now, the one that haunts me most, is: what if there’s no longer a baby here.
I resist the urge to stroke my flat belly. Maksim doesn’t know yet, and I don’t want to tell him here or now. So I just take a deep breath and nod in agreement.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Let’s go.”
He turns to me, surprised by my lack of argument. I’m as proud as he is, and Maksim knows me well—too well—so he frowns slightly as if he doesn’t understand, until he presses a kiss to my forehead and relaxes.
I let myself enjoy his embrace a little longer, watching the darkness of the road through the window as I repeat my silent prayer:
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
“We’re here, Solnyshko.”
Maksim’s husky voice whispers in my ear, and I open my eyes, realizing I dozed off.
We’re not at a clinic. It’s a large, two-story house on what seems to be a quiet street in a luxury residential neighborhood of St. Petersburg.
The lights are on, even though the digital clock on the dashboard shows it’s past three in the morning.
The garage gate opens for us to enter, and Igor is the first to jump out, followed by Vladimir, who then opens the door for Maksim and me.
Before I can protest, my feet leave the ground.
“I can walk, Maksim.”
“You can, but you’re limping.” He presses a kiss into my hair as he climbs the steps carefully. “Let me do at least one thing for you without arguing.”
I stay quiet. Because I know that beneath that commanding exterior is a man who went through hell thinking I might be dead. Maksim is controlling and protective—it’s part of his nature—so I let him carry me, knowing it will bring him a little peace.
As we pass through the door, I’m surprised to find everything white, clean, and antiseptic.
It’s a hospital environment in here, completely at odds with the facade.
A man who looks about sixty, wearing a lab coat, with white hair and tired eyes, emerges through a side door.
He doesn’t even ask what happened—just pulls on gloves and approaches.
“Put her on the gurney,” the doctor says, gesturing toward it with his chin. “I’m Dr. Kazan. Can you tell me your name and what day it is?”
“Svetlana. And I have no idea what day it is, but it’s not because of the blow—I’m just terrible at keeping track of dates.”
His serious expression softens briefly, as if he wants to smile.
“Very good, consciousness preserved and sense of humor intact.” He finishes checking my pupils with that annoying little light. “Let’s take this one step at a time… Tell me where it hurts.”
So I begin listing what feels like an endless litany of pain.
I hadn’t realized how many parts of me were sore until I had to pay attention to each one.
My head, my ribs, my right foot and knee, the palm of my hand.
Dr. Kazan listens attentively, taking notes and asking permission to touch me, to check for broken bones.
When he asks me to remove my boot, the top of my foot is swollen and purple.
“It doesn’t seem to be broken”—I hiss at his touch but force myself not to pull back, letting him finish examining—“but we need an X-ray to confirm. Metatarsal fractures can be quite sneaky.”
He moves on to the ribs, which may also be cracked and will require another imaging exam. Maksim is leaning against the wall in the corner of the room, silent with arms crossed and his expression shuttered, watching every small movement as the doctor cleans the cut on my palm and bandages it.
I can tell the examination is coming to an end, and my anxiety and dread are building.
I need to speak. I need to know if he's okay.
Maksim is already pushing off from the wall, ready to follow me wherever I go. Dr. Kazan finishes his notes and looks up at me with those small eyes.
“Let's check those possible fractures, then,” he says with a kind smile.
“I need an ultrasound.” The words tumble out in a rush, barely above a whisper.
“Pardon?” The doctor frowns, clearly not catching what I said.
“I need an ultrasound,” I say again, firmer this time, chin lifted as I look at the doctor and avoid Maksim's approach. “I'm pregnant.”
The words land like a meteor, followed by a deafening silence. Poor Dr. Kazan looks from me to Maksim, searching our faces for some clue on how to react. Should he congratulate us?
I don't even know.
“Right,” is all he says. “How far along?”
“Seven weeks and five days. I confirmed it yesterday with an ultrasound.” I take a deep breath and push on with what matters most. “I dodged a punch aimed at my stomach, and it caught my ribs instead. I was also in a car rollover and got knocked out with chloroform or something like it.”
The doctor's eyes widen, but he recovers quickly, just nodding.
“Before anything else, I need to know if the baby is okay.”
My voice sounds strange even to me—pleading, anguished, worried.
I finally work up the courage to look at Maksim, and I don't know what to think.
His expression isn't angry or joyful. But it's not the cold refusal and rejection I'd imagined either.
His face is completely still, his eyes revealing nothing, no muscle moving except his throat as it bobs once.
He uncrosses his arms, moves to my side, and orders the doctor:
“Do it.” His voice is low, cracked. “Do it now… Whatever she needs, first.”
Just that.
He doesn't say anything more. Doesn't ask how long I've known or why I didn't tell him sooner. Nothing. Just silence and the sound of the gurney's wheels rolling toward a discreet elevator in the corner of the room.
We go down to a basement floor where he leads us to a smaller, more basic room that looks like it's meant for emergencies. Maksim follows us in silence, his heavy footsteps the only confirmation I have that he's still there, that he hasn't abandoned me.
The ultrasound machine is older and simpler than the one at Dr. Sokolova's clinic, but it works.
Dr. Kazan tells me the procedure will be transvaginal and asks me to undress in a room next door.
Maksim steps toward me, ready to follow as I climb down from the gurney with the doctor's help, but I stop him.
“You don't need to.”
I didn't mean to sound so rude, but the truth is his silence is leaving me confused and distressed. If he doesn't want this pregnancy, then I don't want him taking care of me just because it's “the right thing” to do.
I return to the gurney, position myself as he instructs, and feel the probe slide in. Maksim looks away, turning his attention to the screen. Dr. Kazan studies the images with a furrowed brow, analyzing something in that blur I can't make sense of.
From where I'm lying, I can see part of the screen, and the only thing I notice is that the images look different from yesterday. He presses buttons on the machine, takes measurements, adjusts the transducer inside me, and stays silent.
“Doctor…” My voice comes out barely above a whisper, my eyes threatening to well up. “Talk to me.”
“One second.” He doesn't take his eyes off the screen. “Let me find it.”
Find it?
What does he need to find? My child was there just hours ago!
I stifle a sob, and before I even notice him move, Maksim is at my side.
His hand finds mine and holds it in a firm grip.
He doesn't look at me—he's too focused on the screen.
Intense, searching alongside the doctor for something that doesn't seem to be there.
I fall apart when I hear his low, hoarse voice ask the doctor:
“Is everything okay? With… with both of them, is everything okay?”
He seems afraid, but I can't tell of what. Whether it's for me, for the baby, for what lies ahead, or for what might already be lost.
I don't know.
And I'm too afraid and confused to try to understand.
It takes another second before he responds. A second of pure terror that feels like three hours. I squeeze Maksim's hand and he squeezes back, but that's it. We're too focused on what Dr. Kazan will tell us.
“Found it.”
He sighs loudly too, as if he'd been holding his breath just like me. With that slight smile again, he turns the screen toward me and presses a button that fills the room with sound.
Shhh-shhh-shhh-shhh-shhh.
The rapid sound of that tiny heartbeat is there. It's the same rapid, strange, and strong sound from yesterday, as if it were underwater. I let go of Maksim's hand to cover another sob—this one strong and unrestrained, a cry of relief.
“The heart is beating, and it’s strong.” The doctor points at the screen, but his voice is too cautious for someone simply delivering good news. “It’s the right size for the gestational age.”
“But…” I prompt, because I know there’s a “but” coming.
“But there’s this.” A dark shadow appears on the screen, a black crescent next to where Dr. Sokolova had explained the gestational sac was. “It’s a blood accumulation between the uterine wall and the membrane. It looks like a hematoma consistent with trauma.”
He removes the transducer slowly. The image disappears for a moment, then he clicks on the screen and it returns.
“I’m not an obstetrician, but I can tell you it’s small. From what I remember, this type of hematoma tends to resolve on its own—the body reabsorbs the excess blood—but it’s a warning sign. There’s still a risk of bleeding and loss.”
Ice runs down my spine. I lose my breath, and the tears stop.
“What now? What can I do to make sure nothing happens?”
“Rest.” He looks at Maksim, as if he knows he’ll make sure this order is followed.
“Complete rest. No exertion, no lifting heavy things, and no standing for too long. Any kind of physical activity is off-limits, and you need to contact your obstetrician as soon as possible.” He looks back at me with that reassuring smile.
“You did everything right today, you know?”
“What do you mean?”
“This hematoma could have been much worse. A direct punch to the uterus at this stage, with the force you described, could have detached the entire placenta.” He removes his gloves.
“You turned your body. The impact only grazed you, hitting the side. That saved this pregnancy. I don’t know if it was luck or instinct, but it saved it. ”
I close my eyes.
I turned in time.
Even in the midst of panic, with my fight-or-flight instincts cranked to the max, I knew what I had to do. Some part of me already knew what it took to protect the most precious thing I carried.
I let out my breath slowly.
Thank you.
I thank God, the universe, whoever heard all those prayers I kept repeating. When I finish and finally open my eyes, Maksim is looking at me.
This time I notice. I can read what’s there—in the shoulders that relax just a fraction, in the brow that softens from its serious furrow, in the slight twitch of his lips on the left side, the side with the scar. Maksim can’t say it in words, but it’s written all over his face: relief.
He leans in, kisses my forehead again, and whispers something into my hair, so low I think I must have imagined it.
“It’s going to be okay.”
Maybe he was talking to me, maybe to himself, maybe to the baby. I don’t know. Everything about this night has become one big I don’t know in my head.
Dr. Kazan does an ultrasound on my abdomen to confirm two cracked ribs. Then we move to another room with an X-ray machine.
“The good news is there’s no fracture. The bad news is it was a pretty nasty contusion, and there’s a strained ligament.”
Strained and torn ligaments are nothing new to me, so I just nod and listen to all of Dr. Kazan’s instructions.
The sky is already starting to lighten when Maksim carries me back to the car.
I lay my head on his shoulder and pretend to sleep, because it’s easier to deal with his silence that way.
He hasn’t said anything else since that whisper, at least not to me.
He spoke with the doctor, gave orders, took care of everything, and then carried me back to the car.
He hasn’t stopped touching me, hasn’t loosened his embrace for a second, but he hasn’t said a single word.
I feel the car moving as I turn over every microexpression, every breath, every word of his in my mind.
He asked the doctor if we were okay. Both of us. Then he asked again for detailed instructions on everything I could or couldn’t do. And when Dr. Kazan prescribed me a painkiller, he asked if it was safe.
All of this says so much, but it also says nothing.
Maksim might be worried about me, wanting me to be okay. That doesn’t mean he’s okay with the idea of being a father.
The car passes through the large gate of the property, and I decide to be kind to myself. When Maksim picks me up—now genuinely half-asleep from the pain medication—I rest one arm on my belly and decide, just for today, not to worry about anything other than this baby.
We’re okay.
You’re okay.
And I’m going to do everything to keep it that way.