Page 159 of Vendetta Crown

The technician sweeps the wand in slow, deliberate movements. Each second of silence is another knife in my heart. I squeeze Ruslan's hand harder, my fingers turning white with the pressure.

"Come on, little wolves," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Please."

Nothing.

The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by the soft scrape of the wand against my belly.

"I might need to adjust some settings," the technician says, her voice carefully neutral as she presses the wand more firmly against my stomach.

My eyes find the ceiling, counting the tiles to keep from screaming. Twelve across. Eight down. Ninety-six total.

Numbers that mean nothing against the weight of this silence.

Hope begins to crumble inside me like a sand castle against the tide. I bite my lip until I taste blood, trying to hold back the sob building in my chest.

"Please," I repeat, not caring how desperate I sound. "Please."

Ruslan's fingers tighten around mine. When I finally find the courage to look at him, I see tears streaming silently down his face.

The technician frowns, adjusting a dial on the machine. She repositions the wand yet again, pressing it into a different spot on my belly.

Still nothing.

The ultrasound tech shifts the wand slightly, pressing harder against my lower abdomen. The look on her face makes my stomach clench.

"Just a moment," she murmurs, adjusting something on the machine.

I hold my breath, the pain in my damaged throat nothing compared to the agony of this silence. Ruslan's hand is warm in mine, but I can feel the tremor in his fingers, the fear he's trying so desperately to hide.

And then?—

A sound breaks through.

Whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

Steady. Strong. Unmistakable.

The technician's face breaks into a genuine smile. "There we go."

Another sound joins the first. A second heartbeat, slightly faster but equally powerful.

Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh.

"Both heartbeats are strong," she says, her voice warm with relief. "Your children are doing just fine, Mrs. Dragunov."

I can't speak. Can't breathe. All I can do is listen to that beautiful rhythm—proof of life.

Proof that my babies survived what I survived.

"Let me see them," I croak, the words raw against my damaged throat. "Please."

She nods, turning the screen toward us. "Here they are."

The black and white image swims into focus. Two distinct shapes, curled toward each other like parentheses.

"Baby A," she points to the one on the left. "And Baby B." The one on the right.

Andrei and Nadia.

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