Page 80 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

Hannah is taken to a private room, the sound of monitors and bustling medical staff filling the air. I don’t leave her side, my hand never straying from hers as they prepare her for delivery.

“Sir,” one of the nurses says, hesitating slightly. “Are you planning to stay in the delivery room?”

“Yes,” I reply without hesitation.

Hannah glances at me, her expression a mix of surprise and relief.

“Makar,” she whispers, her voice weak but grateful.

“I’m not leaving,” I say firmly, leaning down so she can see the determination in my eyes. “Not for a second.”

Her lips tremble into a faint smile, and she nods, squeezing my hand.

When her doctor finally arrives, I feel a measure of relief settle over me. He nods in acknowledgment, quickly taking charge and issuing orders to the staff.

“Everything is under control,” he assures me, his voice calm. “We’ll monitor her closely. The baby is coming a little early, but it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

I nod, my grip on Hannah’s hand tightening.

The delivery room is a whirlwind of activity, the sterile environment buzzing with controlled urgency. I stay at Hannah’s side, my focus entirely on her as she breathes through the pain, her face pale but determined.

“You’re doing great,” I murmur, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

She lets out a shaky laugh, her lips twitching into a faint smile. “I hate you right now.”

“I’ll remind you of that later,” I say, smirking despite the tension in my chest.

Her laugh turns into a grimace as another contraction hits, and I feel utterly helpless. I stay where I am, offering her my hand, my presence, my voice—anything to help her through this.

“You’ve got this,” I say again, my voice steady even as fear and excitement battle for dominance inside me.

As the doctor announces that it’s almost time, I realize I’ve never wanted anything more than to see our baby safely in her arms.

The delivery room falls silent, save for the sharp, joyful cry of a newborn breaking through the tension like sunlight after a storm. Hannah collapses back against the bed, her chest heaving as tears streak her face. My grip tightens on her hand, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I allow myself to breathe.

“It’s a boy,” the doctor announces, his voice calm and reassuring.

A boy. My son.

The words don’t seem real as one of the nurses cleans him up, wrapping him in a soft blanket. He’s small—so much smaller than I expected—but the moment they place him in my arms, I feel the weight of him, warm and alive, and everything inside me shifts.

“Hello, Anatoly,” I murmur, the name slipping from my lips before I even realize it.

He stirs at the sound of my voice, his tiny hands curling into fists as his cries settle into soft whimpers. My chest tightens, and I glance at Hannah, whose exhausted smile somehow radiates more strength than I’ve ever seen.

“You did it,” I say quietly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You’re incredible.”

She laughs softly, her voice weak but full of emotion. “Wedid it.”

The nurses work efficiently, tending to Hannah and ensuring she’s comfortable while I hold our son. Her eyes flutter closed, exhaustion overtaking her, and I take a seat beside the bed, cradling Anatoly close.

***

An hour passes, maybe more, and I haven’t moved. Anatoly sleeps peacefully in my arms, his small breaths rhythmic and steady. I stare down at him, memorizing every detail—his tiny fingers, the soft curve of his cheek, the way he fits so perfectly against me.

Hannah stirs, and my gaze shifts to her as her eyes blink open.

“Makar?” she murmurs, her voice raspy from fatigue.

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