Chapter 41
TERESA
Hospitals all smell the same—antiseptic and old coffee, hope and fear wrestling under fluorescent lights.
A nurse with tired eyes placed me in a curtained bay, cool gel on my belly, a doppler wand catching and releasing the noise I’ve been desperate to hear but scared out of my mind that I wouldn’t.
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.
I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until the sound of my baby’s heartbeat fills the space.
“Strong fetal heart tones,” the OB on call says, smiling at me. “No signs of trauma. Get plenty of rest and fluids, and please try not to elevate your adrenaline for a while.”
“I’ll pencil that in,” I manage, tears escaping.
A nurse wipes away the gel, presses discharge papers into my hand, and insists I drink a bottle of water.
I thank her and promise to sit if I feel dizzy.
Then I’m set loose in a maze of hallways filled with soft shoe squeaks and fluorescent lights.
An Angeloff guard positions himself a polite distance behind while he shadows me.
Vlad’s room is at the end of a short corridor guarded by Dmitri, who looks like a particularly unimpressed gargoyle in a chair two sizes too small for his frame. He stands when he sees me, his expression softening.
“He’s all patched up,” Dmitri says. “It was through-and-through, clean. He’d never say it, but he could probably go for some sympathy right about now.”
“Noted.” I chuckle.
“Five minutes,” he adds, then, gentler, “but you can take ten.”
I pause for a moment. “Dmitri, thank you. I—”
He shakes his head, cutting me off. “Appreciated, but you don’t need to thank me.”
I can’t help but open my arms and pull him into a hug. He gives me a soft pat.
“Glad you’re OK,” he says. “Now, go see the old prick before he becomes even more unbearable.”
I laugh, letting Dmitri go with a squeeze of his arm.
I ease inside the room. The lights are low, monitors pulsing soft green. Vlad is propped up against pillows, shirt off, bandage hugging the curve of his right shoulder. The rest of him is annoyingly perfect as always.
He turns at the sound of the door, the cool, careful mask he wears for everyone else peeling away. Relief crashes across his face like a wave breaking.
“Kotenok,” he says, voice husky. “Come here.”
I cross the room, careful not to tug the IV line when I snuggle against his left side.
“You’re okay?” he asks, hands skimming over me. “Both of you?”
“Yep. Strong heartbeat, everything’s good,” I assure him, crying in earnest, unglamorous and completely beyond pretending I’m fine. “We’re both okay.”
“Spasibo,” he breathes, forehead tipping to mine. “Thank God.”
For a minute we lay together, breathing one another in, his left hand in my hair, my palm spread over his chest. I want to scold him and shake him at the same time, kiss him and crawl into his skin.
Love feels too small of a word to explain how I feel.
He clears his throat and pulls back. In the dim light his eyes are dark and unguarded. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Told me what?”
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been a coward where it matters and a tyrant where it didn’t. I told myself discipline would keep you safe and silence would keep me sane.” He winces. “It did neither.”
“Vlad—”
“No. Let me finish.” He cups my jaw, thumb sweeping softly against my cheekbone.
“I love you, Teresa. I love you in ways I didn’t think were possible, in ways that scare the hell out of me.
” His laugh is small, self-mocking. “I should have said it long before this happened. I should have said it so many times already. I’m sorry I didn’t. ”
“You’re not saying this because you got shot?” I smile, teasing.
“I’m saying it because getting shot made knowing what I needed to do very simple.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, warm and certain. “I love you. I intend to protect you. I intend to be worthy of being the father to our child.”
I lean closer until our noses brush. “I love you too,” I whisper, the truth of it clicking into place like a lock I’ve been carrying around finally found its key.
He exhales sharply, relieved. The kiss he gives is neither possessive nor desperate; it’s careful, reverent.
When we part, I press my fingertips to his mouth, pointing to the bandage on his shoulder.
“And if you ever let me get kidnapped again, I’ll hire someone to shoot you in the other shoulder. ” I laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Fair,” he murmurs against my finger, kissing it. “More than fair.”
A soft tap at the door breaks the spell. Dmitri leans in. “Volkov’s asking for you both,” he says. “He’s awake. And… different.”
Different. Interesting.
I take Vlad’s good hand and we move slowly down the hall together. The ICU bay holding Aleksander Volkov is guarded by our men and his—it’s a strange sight, seeing the silver ties alongside his twin wolves. It’s a sign of a different world already forming.
Aleksander looks smaller. He’s pale, the hard planes of his face softened by pain and morphine. He turns his head as we enter, eyes finding me first.
“Devushka,” he says, voice rough and raspy. No spite. “Come.”
I glance at Vlad and he nods. I step to the bedside, fingers worrying the edge of the blanket. Vlad hovers a pace behind, a much-needed wall at my back.
“The baby?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “All good.”
He nods, a tinge of relief washing over him. The man who not too long ago was ready to kill me and my child is now relieved. The irony.
“I have been a fool,” Aleksander says, every word measured. “I loved my son. That love rotted into a thing that needed a villain, and I chose you because it was easier than looking into the mirror. I was wrong.”
My heart clenches. “Maxim—” My voice breaks. “Maxim didn’t deserve what happened.”
“No.” He blinks slowly. “And I made certain you suffered as if you had pulled the trigger. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I… regret. Do you understand? I regret.”
My eyes sting. Regret is not a cure; it’s not even a bandage. But it’s something.
“What happens now?”
“My nephew, Nikolai, arrives from Moscow tomorrow,” Aleksander says.
“Not a boy with ideas, a man with brains. He will keep the house upright while I try to learn how to be old without being cruel.” He closes his eyes for a heartbeat, then opens them again, finding mine.
“There will be no war, no revenge, none of it.”
Vlad steps forward, the two of them measuring each other without the need for raised voices.
“You live,” he says. “And together we can end this war before it starts.”
Aleksander’s attention returns to me. “I almost feel unworthy of wishing you happiness, considering how much pain I’ve caused,” he admits. “But I can try. For you. For the child.” His gaze cuts to Vlad again. “Keep them safe.”
“I will,” Vlad says simply.
“Go,” Aleksander murmurs, closing his eyes again.
We leave on quiet feet, the room exhaling behind us.
In the hall, my legs finally give way. Vlad’s arm comes around me, and I burrow under his good shoulder.
We move slowly together. By the time we reach the hospital side entrance, the snow has blanketed the city once again.
An Angeloff car is nosed close to the curb. Dmitri holds the door.
“Home,” he says. “Both of you.”
We slide into the back seat. The doors shut, enveloping us within a small cocoon of leather and warmth. I tuck myself against Vlad, head on his uninjured shoulder, fingers intertwined with his. He turns his face into my hair and breathes me in.
Outside, streetlights halo the snowflakes. I close my eyes and let the motion of the car smooth my nerves.
I can’t believe it’s over.
“Tell me again.”
“I love you,” he says into my hair.
“I love you,” I reply into his chest.
The city slides by. Somewhere ahead of us is a nursery we haven’t imagined yet and an argument about baby names and hurried mornings tucked inside a life that will never be normal.
We hold on to each other all the way home.