Page 93 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Nurses swarm, voices clipped and fast. A doctor appears, already shouting orders. Blood pressure. Fetal monitor. Prepare an OR just in case.
Someone gestures for me to move.
I don’t.
“She’s my wife,” I say flatly. “I stay.”
Behind me, I hear Yuri’s boots on tile. He pushes through the line of medical staff like they’re nothing but smoke. One of the nurses tells him to wait outside.
He doesn’t even blink. “I stay too,” he says. “She’s not going through this alone.”
I glance at him.
Yuri doesn’t meet my eye. Just stands at Esme’s other side, silent and steady. She grips both our hands, breath shaking as the contraction passes.
I almost smile.
Yuri doesn’t like her. He’s never said it outright, but I know him. Knows how much he distrusts anyone that shifts my focus, but right now?
He stands his ground. For her. In that moment, I’m almost proud of him.
Esme looks at me, eyes wide with fear.
“I’m here,” I murmur. “Not going anywhere.”
She nods, tears on her lashes. As they wheel her into the triage room, Yuri and I follow.
Hospitals are supposed to be places where people get better. Places of healing. Of safety. But I’ve never trusted anything sterile. Anything that hides blood beneath linoleum and death behind polite smiles. I don’t trust the soft colors on the walls, the flowers at reception, the carefully muted tones of every nurse who passes us with a clipboard and a fake expression of calm.
Esme is lying on a narrow hospital bed, her knuckles white from gripping the railing. Her hair is damp, stuck to her temple, her lips pale, her breaths coming faster than I like. I sit beside her with one hand in hers and the other pressed flat over the swell of her belly. It’s still hard. Still too high. The contractions come and go, and with each wave of pain, I feel her whole body tense beneath my touch. She’s trying to stay strong, but I can see how much it’s costing her.
A nurse fiddles with a monitor, eyes flicking between screens. She doesn’t meet mine. None of them do. They speak in shorthand, in murmurs and abbreviations, as though thetechnical language makes it less real, but I don’t care about the codes. I don’t want numbers or probabilities. I want certainty. I want her safe.
The door opens and the lead doctor walks in, clipboard in hand, expression too calm for the weight of the room. He’s older, well-practiced, wearing the kind of face you see after years of repeating the same terrible news with just enough detachment to survive it. He looks first at me, which already puts him on the wrong foot.
“There’s a complication,” he begins, and the calmness in his voice makes my teeth clench. “The baby’s heart rate is dropping steadily, and your partner’s blood pressure has spiked. We’re concerned about placental abruption—”
“Fix it,” I say flatly. I don’t want his explanation. I don’t need the science.
“We’re going to perform an emergency cesarean,” he continues, unbothered. “It’s the safest way to protect both mother and child.”
“Now?” I ask.
He nods. “Immediately. We’ve already begun prepping the operating room.”
It takes effort not to react. I keep my face still, my voice even, but my eyes flick to Esme. She looks at me like she already knows what he’s going to say. There’s no fear in her voice when she speaks, only exhaustion.
“Will it hurt the baby?”
The doctor shakes his head. “We’ll do everything in our power to deliver safely.”
He turns to the nurse to give further instructions, rattling off orders like it’s just another shift, another procedure. I risefrom my seat, stepping into his path before he can take another step.
He’s not small, but I’m bigger. Right now, I’m willing to burn this entire hospital to the ground if he gives me even a reason to.
I grab him by the lapel of his coat, close enough that I can smell the faint antiseptic on his scrubs. My voice doesn’t rise. I don’t shout. I don’t need to.
“If she dies,” I say coldly, “you’ll follow her.”
