Page 87 of Marrying the Pakhan

“Immediately,” Viktor promises, kissing the top of her head. “I love you. Be good for Mrs. Bennett.”

Then it’s just the two of us, in the car, Viktor driving with careful urgency, one hand finding mine across the console every red light we hit.

“You’re doing great,” he says, as another contraction rolls through me, sharper now, closer together than I expected labor to move this fast.

“You don’t know that. You’ve never done this before either.”

“I know you specifically are doing great. That’s a fact I can verify regardless of my personal experience with childbirth.”

I laugh despite the pain, grateful for exactly this, his steady presence cutting through fear the same way it’s cut through every crisis these last several months, except this time the crisis is one we get to be excited about.

The hospital moves fast once we arrive: nurses and monitors, and a doctor who’s calm in the specific way that either means everything’s fine or that she’s simply very good at her job. Viktor stays exactly where I need him, one hand in mine, the other smoothing hair back from my face between contractions, murmuring reassurances I only half process through the growing intensity of everything happening to my body.

“You’re allowed to be scared,” I tell him, somewhere between contractions, catching the tightness around his eyes he’s trying to hide from me. “You don’t have to be steady every single second.”

“I am scared. I’m choosing to be steady anyway, because that’s what you need from me right now.” He presses a kiss to my knuckles. “Being scared doesn’t cancel out being useful. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way this year.”

Hours blur together, the particular timeless quality of labor swallowing whatever sense of clock time I started with. Viktor never leaves, not once, counting through contractions with me, feeding me ice chips, absorbing every sharp word I throw at him during the worst of it without a single complaint.

“You’re allowed to hate me a little right now,” he says, after I’ve squeezed his hand hard enough to leave marks. “I understand this isn’t entirely pleasant.”

“I don’t hate you. I hate this specific contraction. There’s a difference.”

“Fair distinction.”

It’s sometime past midnight when the monitors change, a sound I don’t fully understand but immediately recognize as wrong, the nurse’s expression shifting from routine calm into something sharper, faster.

“The baby’s heart rate’s dropping,” she says, already reaching for the call button. “I need the doctor in here now.”

Fear crashes through me instantly, cutting through the exhaustion and pain, and I grip Viktor’s hand hard enough that he winces.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know yet.” His voice stays remarkably level despite the fear I can see plainly in his eyes. “But you’re not alone in this. Whatever happens, I’m right here.”

The room fills fast—the doctor and two more nurses, someone checking the monitor, someone else gently pressing against my stomach, adjusting my position. This rapid, urgency terrifies me more than any explicit words could.

“On your left side, now,” the doctor instructs, already helping guide me into position. “Oxygen, please. Let’s see if position and oxygen bring this back up before we consider anything more drastic.”

I watch the monitor over Viktor’s shoulder, numbers I don’t fully understand but can read well enough to know they’re not where they’re supposed to be, and every second that passes without improvement feels like an hour.

“We may need to move to an emergency delivery,” the doctor says, calm but fast, already prepping equipment nearby, just in case. “The heart rate’s recovering slightly with the position change, which is a good sign, but I want to be ready to act quickly if it drops again.”

“Is the baby okay?” My voice cracks entirely, panic finally breaking through everything I’ve been holding together. “Please, is my baby okay?”

“We’re watching closely. Right now, yes. I need you to trust us and follow my instructions exactly, okay?”

I nod, unable to manage words, and Viktor’s hand tightens around mine, grounding me even as his own face carries a fear I’ve genuinely never seen from him before, not at the hangar, not anywhere.

“Stay with me,” he says, forehead pressed against mine. “Harper, look at me. Stay right here with me.”

I focus on his eyes, dark and steady despite everything, and I breathe the way the doctor instructs, and the monitor’s alarming sound slowly, gradually, begins to even out again.

“There we go,” the doctor says, some of the urgency finally draining from her voice. “Heart rate’s stabilizing. Good girl. We’re going to keep a very close eye on things, but for now, we continue.”

Relief hits so hard I start crying, and Viktor kisses my forehead, my temple, whispering something that might be Russian, might just be relief with no words attached to it at all.

“You scared me,” I manage, once I can speak again.