Page 114 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

He tries to sit up, but a sharp intake of breath stops him. His hand goes to his side. “That’s... not going to be fun to heal.”

“You’ll heal,” I say. “Just try not to re-open the stitches.”

He looks at me, brows furrowed. “The baby,” he says. “Is the baby...?”

“The baby’s fine.” My hand goes to my stomach. “Yelena checked. Everything looks good.”

Relief floods his features, softening the lines of pain and exhaustion. “Thank God,” he breathes. “I’m sorry for putting you in danger again.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “Anton did, and now he’s gone.”

“Gone.” He says the word like it’s foreign to him, like he’s not sure he knows how to use it anymore. “Good fucking riddance.”

My heart aches for him, for the boy he was and the man he’s become. Even so, I have to hide a laugh behind my palm. We meet eyes for a second, and Roman grins.

It doesn’t last long, though. There’s something we need to discuss first. “Listen, we need to talk about Konstantin.”

His eyes search mine, looking for something he can’t quite find. “What about him?”

I hesitate, not wanting to burden him with this when he’s already so weak. Except he deserves the truth.

“He’s called an emergency council meeting. Lev thinks he’s going to try to spin a narrative that you were the aggressor.”

A bitter laugh escapes Roman’s lips, but it turns into a cough that makes him clutch his side in pain. “Of course he is.”

“Lev thinks he’ll try to use this to take control,” I continue, my voice low. “With you incapacitated and Anton gone, he sees an opening.”

“Let him try,” Roman says, but there’s no real fire in his words. He’s too tired. “He’ll find out I’m not as easy to get rid of as Dmitri was.”

“Don’t say that,” I say, my voice sharp. “You’re basically asking for bad luck.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes drifting closed as if the effort of keeping them open is too much.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. “I never thought I’d have this. You or a baby. A life that’s not just about survival.”

“You have it,” I say, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. “I’m not going to let anyone take it away from us.”

“You sound so sure,” he says, but there’s wonder in his voice, not doubt.

“I am sure.”

He opens his eyes and watches me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he squeezes my hand.

“Good,” he says. “Good luck to anybody who tries to get between us.”

34

ROMAN

Pain drags me awake. Every muscle in my body aches, a bone-deep throb radiating from the wound in my side.

The pain medication Yelena gave me has worn off, leaving me raw and exposed to the full extent of my injuries.

Yelena moves with efficient grace, her hands gentle but firm as she changes the bandages on my side. The wound is angry and red, the stitches neat but brutal-looking against my skin.

“You’re healing well,” she says. “No signs of infection. That’s the good news, but we’ll put you on antibiotics to be safe.”

I know there’s bad news coming. I can see it in the way she avoids my eyes, in the slight hesitation before she speaks.