Page 119 of Bratva's Vow
His eyes locked on mine, and for a moment, I thought he was going to be angry I’d disobeyed him. His shoulders went stiff. His expression flickered.
Even Nik, still seated, groaned under his breath. “Fuck. If I die, you gotta tell Jess I love her.”
I ignored him but didn’t take a step, not sure how Maxim would react. He shifted out from under Archie’s arm. Left Sergei behind.
And came to me.
Just walked straight across the waiting room like nothing else mattered. Like I was the only person in the room.
I didn’t move.
Not until he reached me, and then I was in his arms, and he was in mine, and everything else dropped away.
He held me like he’d been waiting to fall apart.
I wrapped myself around him, as tight as I could. His breath hitched, and I felt it—the tremble in his chest, the grief boiling under the surface.
“I’m here,” I whispered into his shoulder. “I’m right here.”
He didn’t speak for a long moment, just clung to me, breathing hard while I rubbed circles along his back.
He inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “What are you doing here? I told you to go home.”
“I know, but I couldn’t bear the thought of you needing me and not being here for you. Please don’t shut me out.” I threaded my fingers through the hair at his nape. “I want to be there for you.”
“He’s gone,” he whispered. “He’s dead, Wren.”
The words hit me like a slap. I wasn’t prepared for this to be the news. I’d thought at best seriously ill, but…dead. Oh god. Sweet Vova.
My throat closed. “Maxim…”
He didn’t cry. He held me tighter, like if he let go, he might collapse.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, and meant it with everything I had. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Foolish question. Nothing could bring Vova back.
Maxim leaned into me, burying his face against my neck.
“Just… don’t let go yet,” he whispered. “I’m just… so tired. Can I stay like this? Just for a minute.”
I held him tighter, threading my fingers into his hair.
“You can take all the minutes,” I said softly. “Every single one you need.”
In that moment, it wasn’t him holding me together.
It was me holding him.
Something unfamiliar swelled inside me. Something sharp and aching and vast. Not fear. Not love. Not even grief. It was the overwhelming need to protect him. To hold him up when he couldn’t do it for himself. To become his strength, even for a little while.
Since we got home from the hospital, the house felt different. Somber, as if it too were in mourning.
I padded barefoot down the hallway, past the living room, where the lights were still dimmed. The clock on the wall ticked out an uneven rhythm, echoing faintly. Somewhere deeper inside, the low rumble of Maxim’s voice—sharp, clipped—sliced through the silence like broken glass.
He was still in his office.
I’d left him alone to finish up my reading, then prepared him a bath, which seemed more needed than I’d imagined. So much anger tinged his words.
