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I scream—a raw, primal sound that echoes into the night. "You're not leaving me. Not now, not ever.” She’s mine, and Iwill command her soul back into her body if it’s the last thing I do.
Again, I try chest compressions, breathing my air into her lungs, refusing to give up. Because if I give up, she’ll never again tease me for being old, or roll her eyes when I tell her what to do. I’ll never hear her laugh again—a sound so pure it’s burrowed deep in my soul.
So I keep going. For my wife, and our child. I once told Kira that I’m the grim reaper. But I won't be the one to claim her, not now, not when there's so much left for us.
Kira coughs, water spewing from her mouth. Relief floods through me. My hands tremble as I gently cradle her face, desperate to see life in her eyes. That she is in fact alive and breathing. I scramble to check her pulse—it’s weak, but it’s there. A low, guttural sound rips from my chest. Profound relief, mixed with an underlying current of anxiety, knowing she’s not yet in the clear.
The distant roar of a helicopter grows louder, piercing through my haze.
"It's ours. We need to get her to a hospital!” Roman shouts over the din.
I rise, holding Kira close, her light body in my arms a reminder of her vulnerability.
The chopper descends into a clearing nearby, its rotors churning the night air into a frenzy, its bright lights out of place in the dark peace of the forest.
I glance back at Nadya, her form still and silent on the ground. "Make sure she lives,” I growl at my men. “I'm not done with her yet."
Climbing into the helicopter, the noise and chaos fade into the background. All that matters is Kira, breathing in my arms.
She’ll fight—I know she will. She’ll fight for me. For our baby.
For our future hanging by a thread.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
KIRA
The world filtersback to me in fragments: the low hum of medical equipment, the sterile scent of antiseptic, a stiff mattress beneath me. My eyelids open reluctantly, and an unfamiliar room swims into focus, bathed in the soft glow of fluorescent lights.
I’m in a hospital, that much is clear, but how I got here is a blur.
I turn my head slightly, wincing at the stiffness in my neck.
I find Maxim beside my bed. His head is bowed, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. He looks like a man carrying the weight of the world.
"Maxim," I try to speak, but the word comes out as a barely audible rasp.
His head snaps up, his deep blue eyes meeting mine. There's a storm there—relief, pain, and love all swirling together. He looks like he's been through hell and back, his dark hair messy, his face tired and drawn, his usual polished exterior cracked and tarnished.
“Lastochka,” he whispers, reaching for my hand. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” I croak, trying to sit up straighter.
He gently presses a hand against my shoulder, urging me to ease back onto the pillows. “Easy. You’ve been through a lot.” Maxim stands and reaches for a glass of water on the bedside table. Carefully, he supports my head, lifting the glass to my lips.
I drink slowly, the cool liquid soothing my dry throat. “How long have I been out?”
“Thirty nine hours, four minutes, seven seconds.”
Despite my throbbing head, a small smile grows on my lips. “Not that you’ve been counting.”
He sets the glass down, his gaze never wavering from my face. “Do you remember anything?”
Disjointed images flash through my mind, but everything is a jumbled dark mess. "Nadya... The cabin," I say, my voice still weak. "I remember fighting ... and falling into the water.” I shake my head, ignoring the throbbing in my temples. “You saved me, didn’t you?”
Maxim reaches out to cup my cheek. The lingering terror in his expression tells me exactly how he felt about that moment. "When we got there, you were in the river. I thought I had lost you." His grip tightens on my hand. "But you fought, lastochka. You fought so hard.”
There’s something else dancing at the edges of my consciousness.
