Page 157 of Vendetta Crown

I nod blankly. Every breath feels like scraping sandpaper against raw flesh.

The doctor keeps talking, his clipboard a shield between us, but I'm barely listening. My good hand moves instinctively to my belly. I press gently, waiting for that familiar flutter.

The reassurance that Nadia and Andrei are still with me.

But I feel nothing.

My heart rate spikes on the monitor beside me. The rhythmic beeping accelerates into an urgent tempo.

"Doctor," I rasp, my voice a jagged whisper that barely escapes my damaged throat. "My babies. Are my babies okay?"

He pauses, looking up from his clipboard. The practiced neutrality in his expression slips for just a second, long enough for me to catch it.

"We've been mostly monitoring your condition right now, Mrs. Dragunov. The trauma you've sustained?—"

"Please," I force the word out, each letter a dagger in my throat. "Just tell me."

The doctor sets the clipboard down and meets my eyes. "I don't know yet. We've scheduled an ultrasound as soon as you're stabilized."

That non-answer hurts more than Kristofer's hands ever did. I press my palm flat against my belly, willing desperately to feel any movement. Any sign of life.

"How long?" I whisper.

"Within the hour. Your husband is being treated in the room next door. He's asked about you and the babies constantly."

My eyes burn with unshed tears. Ruslan came back for me. Just like Vera said: as sure as the tide.

But what if he came too late to save our children?

The doctor looks up, his expression softening as the door swings open.

"Mr. Dragunov. Good to see you up and moving."

Ruslan limps in, his face bruised but his eyes burning with intensity. The doctor gives him a nod and tucks his clipboard under his arm.

"I'll give you two some time alone. The ultrasound technician will be here shortly."

As soon as the door clicks shut, Ruslan crosses to my bedside. He sits down in the chair next to it and reaches for my good hand.

His fingers are warm against mine, his grip gentle but solid.

But that small tender touch breaks whatever fragile control I've been clinging to.

"Ruslan," I sob, my voice cracking through my damaged throat. "I can't feel them anymore."

My tears spill over, hot and unrelenting.

"I can't feel our babies kick. I've been trying and trying, but there's nothing. Nothing at all."

Each word feels torn from me.

My lungs burn with the effort to speak through my swollen throat. I look down at my belly, willing myself to feel that flutter.

To feel something.

Anything.

"What if they're—" I can't even finish the sentence. The possibility is too devastating to voice.

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