Page 59 of Crimson Curse
Lex speaks, his voice low and even. “She’s strong. You know that.”
“I know she’s strong,” I grind out. “That’s not what terrifies me.”
Lex tilts his head, his gray-blue eyes narrowing. “Then what does?”
“That strength has cost her too much already,” I whisper, my voice raw. “I’m asking her body to give me more when I should be shielding her from this.”
Timur exhales, the sound like gravel dragging. “You cannot fight this for her. Let her fight it. She will win.”
Another scream. My nails dig into my palms. My men, who have seen me unflinching in the face of death, watch me unravel with every cry from the woman I love.
I pace harder, my footsteps striking against the linoleum. Every tick of the clock drills into me. My thoughts are a tsunami now.What if the blood meant something worse? What if it is way too soon? What if her body gives out before the child takes its first breath?
Lex straightens in his chair, his gaze following me. “You’ll wear a hole in the floor,” he mutters.
I snap my eyes to him. “Better the floor than me.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smirk but thinks better of it. “She’ll come through it. You have to believe that.”
I bark a laugh that holds no humor. “Belief is an illusion. Facts are what matter. And the fact is she is bleeding, in pain, and it’s too early.”
“She is still Naomi,” Lex reminds me. “And Naomi does not break.”
The words dig into me. He’s right, but that doesn’t quiet the terror wrapped around me like barbed wire.
Hours blur together. Nurses come and go, their shoes squeaking against polished floors, their voices a hurried rush of instructions. My men take shifts. Timur steps away for coffee, and Lex speaks quietly into his phone to tighten security. None of it touches me. My entire world is inside that room.
At one point, I hear her voice rise louder, raw with pain. “Daniil!”
The sound shreds me. I lunge for the door, but the nurse steps out at that exact moment, blocking me with effortless calm.
“Mr. Zorin, you can’t go in yet,” she says, firm but respectful.
“She called for me,” I snarl, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“She’s in good hands,” the nurse assures, though her eyes glint with the kind of sympathy that only stokes my fear. “We’re monitoring everything closely. The baby’s heart rate is strong. Stay here. She needs you centered when it’s over.”
I want to tear the door from its hinges. But I freeze, rooted to the floor by the thought of making things harder for Naomi. I force myself to nod. The nurse disappears back inside, and I am left alone with my demons.
I stare at the closed door. “I would carry her across it,” I mutter.
“Tonight, she carries both of you,” Lex replies. He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to.
The last months unfurl in my head while I wait. I see the day we stood beneath an arch of pale roses, the garden lanterns turning damp air into a slow shine while our friends looked on. I hear my vow, low and simple, stripped of everything people say about me. I didn’t speak like apakhan. I spoke like a man who wanted to live a life instead of merely surviving one. The officiant pronounced us, and I kissed my wife with reverence and intention. We didn’t pretend a future. We began one.
After that, some of the days felt almost ordinary. A room became a nursery. The security screens in my office often showed a parade of deliveries that would have made my mother question my priorities. There were tiny clothes in soft fabrics. A chair that rocks in a rhythm that makes you believe in small mercies. And I found myself ordering a moon mobile that glides on barely visible threads, an indulgence I justified by calling it an astronomy lesson and not a sentimental object. When I unwrapped it and a small silver crescent turned in my palm, I realized how dishonest that justification sounded even to me.
Another cry yanks me back to the corridor. I hear the strain in Naomi’s voice. It’s not a cry to signal surrender. It’s a cry to bend the world to her will.
My chest hollows for a moment. I imagine my mother walking into this corridor, her eyes assessing, her questions so sharp you could cut your hand on them. She wouldn’t ask if Naomi was afraid. She would ask if Naomi was adequate. The image is so clear that I want to tear it down until there is nothing left of that coldness inside me. Instead, I stand very still and breathe deeply.
Then it happens. The sound drops out of the world. It’s not a quiet hush where everything is gentle. It’s a flat absence that makes every instinct I own leap to attention. I go to the door, and Lex is already there with an arm across the handle. His eyes meet mine and hold. “Wait,” he murmurs. “Give them a minute.”
I try, but my muscles clench, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if the silence lasts. It doesn’t.
The cry that follows is piercing. It’s a brand-new voice telling the night that it exists and will not be ignored.
I push past Lex, and he lets me. The room is a small tempest of movement that settles as I step inside. Naomi is there, hair damp against her temples, cheeks flushed, chest lifting and lowering with effort that has left her spent and shining. She turns her head toward me, and the relief on her face hits me with a force that almost knocks me back. She is alive. She is intact. She has done this impossible.
