Page 124 of Beautiful Agony

For the first time since I was a child watching Pyotr's cruelty, true fear grips me.

The memories start bleeding together. Kirsan's words about a father's love twisting into the way Lacey cradles her belly when she thinks I'm not looking. The fierce protectiveness I feel for our unborn daughter morphing into Kirsan's perverse obsession with Sayanaa.

My vision swims in and out of focus. The ceiling tiles above me blur and shift. I try to piece together what happened after Kirsan stabbed me but there's nothing but darkness and pain.

One word manages to escape my lips, barely a whisper: "Lacey..."

Warmth envelops my hand, and suddenly the pain recedes like a wave pulling back from shore. The harsh hospital lighting burns through my eyelids, but with each passing second, the world comes into sharper focus.

That incessant beeping grows louder—my heartbeat, I realize dimly.

Then I see her.

Lacey's face hovers above mine, those amber-flecked brown eyes glistening with tears. My throat constricts at the sight of the bruises marring her jaw, her neck, her arms. But she's alive. She's here.

"Hey," she whispers, squeezing my hand. Her touch anchors me, drawing me fully back to consciousness. "Welcome back."

My vision sharpens with each blink until the faces around me come into focus. My mother stands near the window, her hand clasped with Martin's. Serena hovers close to them both. The sight of my family gathered here makes my chest tighten with emotion.

Demyon leans against the wall, arms crossed and exhaustion etched into his features. Dark circles ring his eyes, but that familiar hint of a smirk plays at his lips. Megan stands beside him, her shoulder pressed against his arm in a way that speaks volumes.

But it's Lacey who draws my gaze like a magnet. Those rich amber-flecked eyes I love so much shine with tears as she squeezes my hand. Despite the bruises marking her skin, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Three days," Lacey says softly before I even have a chance to ask. "You've been unconscious for three days."

Three days. The words echo in my mind as I try to process them. Three days of lying here helpless while my family waited. Three days of Lacey worrying. I want to apologize, to pull her close and never let go. But even lifting my arm takes a monumental effort.

I try to speak but my mouth is too dry. She seems to understand, bringing a cup of water to my lips. The cool liquid soothes my raw throat.

"Larina?" I manage to rasp out.

A soft smile breaks through her tears. "She's fine. We're both fine." Her free hand drifts to her belly, and relief floods through me so intensely it makes me dizzy.

"You scared me," she says, voice breaking. "I thought... when I saw all that blood..."

I want to tell her I'm sorry for frightening her. Want to pull her into my arms and never let go. But my body feels leaden, unresponsive. All I can do is squeeze her hand weakly.

She leans down and presses her forehead to mine. The familiar citrus-lavender scent of her hair washes over me, and for the first time since waking, I feel truly safe. Truly at peace.

"I love you," she whispers against my skin. "Don't you ever do that to me again."

Demyon pushes off from the wall and approaches my bed. "You're a hero, you know that?" His familiar smirk widens. "Every news organization in LA is practically breaking down the doors trying to get to you."

I manage a weak chuckle. "Keep them away, would you?" The words scratch my dry throat. "I've had enough excitement for now."

"Welcome back, boss." Demyon's eyes hold genuine warmth beneath his usual irreverence.

My mother steps closer to the bed, her storm-gray eyes—the same ones I inherited—swimming with tears.

"I saw your interview, Vadyusha," she says softly. Her hand trembles as she reaches for mine. "The things you said about wanting to make the world better..."

"Mom—" My voice catches. Even now, using that word feels precious and new.

"No, let me finish." She squeezes my fingers. "I was wrong to push you away. Wrong to see only your father when I looked at you. You're nothing like him, Vadyusha. You're everything I hoped you would become."

The weight of her words settles in my chest. "You have nothing to apologize for," I tell her. "What Pyotr did to you?—"

"Is in the past." Martin steps forward, placing a steadying hand on my mother's shoulder. His easy smile reminds me of simpler times. "You did good, son. Real good."

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