Page 73 of Married to the Bratva

I sit beside him, gripping his hand so tightly my knuckles ache. His skin is clammy, his fingers barely responding to mine, but I refuse to let go.

“Keep talking to him,” one of the paramedics says without looking up. “He needs to hear you.”

My throat feels like sandpaper, but I force the words out. “Maxim,” I whisper, leaning close to his ear. “You’re going to be fine. You’re too stubborn to die. You have an empire to run, people to terrify, peanut butter to hoard.”

His lips twitch, a faint ghost of a smile that makes my heart squeeze painfully. “Peanut butter,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

“That’s right,” I say, blinking back tears. “And you still haven’t taught me how to make that ridiculously complicated espresso you like.”

His hand tightens weakly around mine, and for a moment, it’s enough. But then his eyes close again, his breathing shallow, and panic grips me like a vice.

“Why isn’t he waking up?” I demand, my voice sharp with fear.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the paramedic says calmly. “We’re doing everything we can. Just keep talking to him.”

I swallow hard, my mind racing for something—anything—to say. And then the words tumble out before I can stop them.

“I’m pregnant.”

54

SOPHIE

The waiting room feels like a purgatory of bad coffee, cheap linoleum, and stale air. I sit there, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have turned white.

Every second drags on, the clock on the wall mocking me with its sluggish hands.

Did he hear me? He didn’t move or speak when I told him I’m pregnant. Is he dying? Already dead?

A doctor steps into the room. His scrubs are stained with blood, his face drawn but calm.

“Mrs. Abramov?” he asks.

I leap to my feet. “Is he?—”

“He’s stable,” the doctor says, cutting through my panic. Relief crashes over me like a wave, leaving me weak. “The bullet missed anything vital, but it was close. We’ve stopped the bleeding and closed him up. He’ll need a lot of rest, but he’s going to make it.”

I nod, barely able to process the words. “Can I see him?”

“Not for long,” the doctor cautions. “He’s still under the effects of the anesthesia.”

I follow him through the maze of hallways, my heart pounding with every step. When we reach Maxim’s room, the doctor steps aside, and I push the door open.

Tubes and monitors surround him, their rhythmic beeping the only sign of life. For a moment, I can’t move, can’t breathe. Seeing him like this—so vulnerable, so human—it’s too much.

I force myself forward, sinking into the chair beside his bed. My fingers brush his, hesitant at first, then firmer. His skin is warm, and the contact steadies me.

“Hey, peanut butter hoarder,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”

His eyes flicker open, heavy-lidded and unfocused. “Sophie?” His voice is rough. “Never show fear to your enemies.”

“You’re not my enemy,” I say, leaning closer. “You’re my husband.”

He blinks slowly, his gaze sharpening as it locks on mine. “You stayed.”

“Of course I stayed,” I say, my throat tightening. “Did you think I’d just leave you here?”

His hand shifts, weakly curling around mine. The gesture is so small, but it speaks volumes. I stare at him, my chest aching with emotions I can’t even begin to name. “I heard you in the ambulance,” he says. “You’re pregnant.”

---