Page 45 of Crimson Curse
“That is our child,” he says, like a secret he will guard with his life.
The nurse wipes the gel away and tucks the blanket back around me. “Doctor Levin will be in to go over details,” she assures us. “In the meantime, take small sips of water if your throat is dry. Call me if you feel lightheaded or if the pain climbs. We are keeping it simple and safe with medication.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She gives a short nod and leaves as softly as she arrived.
I let my head sink into the pillow. The ache along my ribs sharpens when I breathe deeply, but it feels familiar now, like a boundary I can navigate without falling apart. I slip my hand from Daniil’s and lay my palm over my stomach.
“Hi,” I breathe, speaking to the baby. “I’m right here.”
Daniil settles in the chair beside my bed. He sits like a sentinel who has no intention of leaving his post.
“How long have I been here?” I ask.
He glances at the wall clock. “Five hours.” His thumb traces the back of my hand again, as if that small motion keeps him from unraveling. “They took you straight to surgery.” His jaw tightens, then unlocks with forced calm. “The bullet missed everything that matters.”
“What happened?” The question shakes out of me before I can stop it. The last thing I remember is marble under my knees andvoices bending into a roar. The ceiling had been too far away. My hands were sticky with blood that wouldn’t stop. Then nothing.
His eyes darken. He looks at our hands instead of my face when he answers. “Viktor fired. The shot hit you.” He drags in a breath like it sticks to his ribs.
His eyes burn with a storm I cannot read. “You should not have done that,” he says, his voice soft but cut through with iron.
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“You stepped in front of me.” His gaze pins me in place. “That bullet was meant for me, Naomi. And you—” His jaw flexes, the words sticking like glass. “You nearly gave your life to stop it.”
The memory returns in a rush, seizing my throat in its grip. “I couldn’t let him take you. I couldn’t.”
His hand comes up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing at the dampness clinging to my cheek. “You saved my life,” he admits, the confession raw, drawn from some place he doesn’t open for anyone. His breath shakes. “No one has ever done that for me. Not like this.”
I try to answer, but emotion crushes my voice. The tears come again, thick and unstoppable.
He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine, and his tone changes, gentler now, and touched with awe. “I’m proud of you. So proud it breaks me to say it.” His thumb slides gently across my cheek. “You are braver than anyone I have ever known.”
Then his voice hardens, sharp as steel. “But you will never do that again. Do you understand me? I will not survive it a second time.”
My chest aches, but I nod because I know he needs the promise, even if I can’t swear my instincts will obey it.
“Did you…” My voice falters, the question trembling between us. I want to know, yet I fear the answer will tear open another wound.
“Yes.” His reply is steady, unflinching. “I ended him.”
Relief and sorrow collide inside me. Part of me feels triumphant that the shadow hanging over us has finally been cut down. Yet another part grieves that Daniil’s hands were forced to carry out such a brutal end against his own blood. My eyes linger on his face, tracing the lines etched deeper since I first met him, and on the mouth that has been merciless to the world but endlessly gentle with me. To others, he is untouchable, unstoppable. But I have seen the man behind the legend. Right now, it is his humanity I crave most, the fragile truth that he is not made of stone, and that he is mine to hold.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words feeling too small.
He lifts his head and studies me with that intensity that made me feel seen from the first moment he walked into my world. “You do not thank me for that,” he says, his voice rough. “There was no other ending.”
A soft knock, then a man in a white coat steps in with the nurse. His presence fills the room in a quiet, authoritative way, his posture straight but not unkind. His hair is silver at the temples, his expression composed, and his eyes hold the steady calm that have seen the worst nights and guided people through them.
“I am Dr. Levin,” he says, and I like his voice at once. Steady and gentle without being sweet. “You had a frightening night, but I have good news. We managed your bleeding quickly, and scansshow no internal damage. The bullet grazed along ribs eight and nine, which is painful, however it spared your lung and did not threaten the pregnancy. Your vitals have stabilized well.”
The language soothes and steadies me. He gestures to the nurse, who hands him a tablet.
“I am going to be very boring with pain management because we have a passenger,” Dr. Levin continues. “Acetaminophen for now, ice intermittently along the ribs, no heavy lifting, careful movements. If pain spikes beyond that, we will reassess with medication that is safe, but I prefer to start simple. Hydration and rest are your friends. We will schedule a formal ultrasound tomorrow morning to give you a picture and measurements of the baby. For tonight, I am happy with the heartbeat and with your numbers.”
I absorb the instructions like they are a rope thrown down a cliff. “Can I go home tonight?”
