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I’ll never forget how it felt to be kneeling on the road as I sobbed over Arman’s body. I truly believed he was dead, and if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have come back to face Timur’s sociopathic wrath.
I didn’t give up, even then. I got to my feet and hammered on the nearest door, terrifying a young couple. Their toddler stared at me wide-eyed as I called an ambulance, and it was there in two minutes, the EMTs barking into radios as they patched Arman up and flung him in the back. The journey felt like hours, and I sat beside my husband, watching as a machine breathed for him.
They told me he was in shock and would have a chance of being okay, but only if they could get some blood into him. After tanking to the low thirties, his heart rate spiked to an irregular sprint, and I shook with terror as the female paramedic worked on him, trying to keep her footing as the vehicle tore through the midtown streets.
I prayed. I was willing to cut God any deal; my life for Arman’s, even, except I know he’d never forgive me for that. If he awoke to find me gone, he’d suffer just as much as I would, if not more.
For the longest time, I sat in a chair and stared as a team of people in scrubs jostled for position at Arman’s bedside. Then they spirited him away, and I had no option but to find my family. I returned to Vlad’s room, told the incredulous Sasha what I knew, and he stormed off to the nurse’s station wielding wads of dollars and non-negotiable demands. Arman’s private room is just as well-appointed as Vlad’s, and it’s next door.
Morgana appears with coffee. “Here,” she says, handing me a cup. “It’s hot. I know you prefer yours iced, but the line for Starbucks was obscene, and this little terror wanted to get back to Daddy.”
Steffie climbs onto Vlad’s lap, and he winces. “Watch it, princess. I got a lot of bruises.”
“Is she alright?” I ask Morgana.
“Yeah,” she replies with a smile. “Steffie didn’t see what happened, and Dulcie quickly took her to bed while I freaked out and called Sasha.” She frowns and touches Arman’s chest, feeling it rise and fall. “Have they said anything yet?”
“Now that he’s off the oxygen, they expect he’ll come round naturally any time. He needs more blood and fluids, and he has to have steroids and antifungals because of all the graveyard soil he breathed. The knife didn’t hit anything essential, so he should be fine. Just a little beat up.”
Morgana shudders, and I squeeze Arman’s hand. The X-rays and test results confirmed that Timur really did bury him. I have no idea how Arman escaped, but Vlad might have been onto something. How many times would my husband die for me?
If he were awake to answer now, he’d laugh and say it was a dumb question, but I know the truth. There’s nothing he wouldn’t put himself through, no pain too great, no fear too crippling. Death himself came to call, and Arman pushed him aside to get to me.
I study his face. His scar fades where it reaches his eyelid; he was so close to losing that eye. At my father’s hands, he was lucky to survive.
The outer corner of his eye crinkles, and I write it off as one of the many minor tics I’ve seen since he came out of surgery, but as I watch, his cheek muscles twitch, and his eyes flutter open.
“Arman!” I cry. “Can you hear me? I’m here!”
He blinks rapidly, pulling his hand away from mine to rub his forehead. “Jesus fuck,” he croaks, his voice rusty from dehydration. “I’m dead.”
“You’re not dead, bratan,” Vlad says, “but not for lack of trying.”
“Timur!” Arman sits bolt upright, almost yanking the tubes out of his arms. “Where is that cunt? I’ll kill him—” he slumps flat again, turning bloodshot eyes to me. “Tsvetok. My Lilyana, my love. You’re here. Thank God.” His words crack as relief washes over him. “Oh fuck me, I thought I’d lost you. Are you hurt?”
“No.” I lower my face and press my cheek to his. “You saved me. You always do.”
“Not entirely true. I remember.” He touches my face gently. “You didn’t let that piece of shit win, even though you knew he’d more than likely kill you either way.” He kisses me. “I’m proud of you, always, in every way I could be. I love you so damn much.”
Tears of gratitude fall from my eyes, soaking Arman’s chest. If I lived to be two hundred years old, I’d give thanks every day that he and I got another chance.
“You went to ridiculous lengths to visit me in hospital,” Vlad says. He wheels himself closer and takes Arman’s hand, shaking it. “Did you really escape from a grave? I don’t think I could have done that.”
“You could if you thought Steffie or me were in danger,” Morgana says, dropping her head onto Vlad’s shoulder.
He smiles. “Fair point well made, lisichka.”
“It wasn’t just any grave,” Arman murmurs. “It was my father’s. Our father’s.” He closes his eyes again. “Timur was my half-brother. I never knew, and neither did he, until today. The car bomb we all thought was intended for Sergey was meant to kill my Papa, and it was Timur who set the charge. All because his mother demanded her vengeance. She killed my mother, but it wasn’t enough for her.”
“Holy shit,” Vlad says. “I wish Sergey had been the one to die. My father didn’t deserve his life.”
“I wish I could ask my Papa about it,” Arman says, sighing heavily. “It’s tough to know I had a brother all along, but we could never have been family.”
“You have a family, brat.” Vlad puts a hand on Arman’s shoulder.
“Yep,” I say, brushing his hair off his forehead. “You’re Mr. Lilyana.”
Vlad bursts out laughing, and Arman arches a brow as he sits up. “That’s kinda hot, in a way, but no self-respecting bratva man can stand for that. You have my name, baby girl, and you’d better like it that way.”
