Page 120 of The Last Hope

Our home.

Our children.

Our family.

“Yes,” I whispered, my fingers brushing lightly against his lips.

He frowned, not understanding, and I smiled at the confusion on his face.

“Yes, I would marry you a thousand times over, Nikolai Ivanov.”

His eyes widened in surprise, “yes ?” he repeated.

“Yes,” I said again, giggling.

A second later, we were out of bed and I was in his arms as he spun me around, making me yelp with laughter while he burst into joyous laughter of his own.

“Shh, Nikolai ! You’ll wake everyone up !” I laughed, playfully smacking his shoulder.

He finally stopped, setting me down with care, his hands framing my face as he kissed me—deep and tender.

“Ya lyublyu tebya, moy solnychko. Moye serdtse i moya dusha, ya lyublyu tebya, (“I love you, my sunshine. My heart and my soul, I love you,)” he murmured against my lips, his words filling my eyes with emotion.

“I love you too, my love. With all my heart and all my soul,” I whispered in Italian, “Ti amo anch’io, amore mio. Con tutto il cuore e tutta l’anima, ( I love you too, my love. With all my heart and soul.)” kissing him again as his arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer still.

“Then we’re getting married,” he said, his lips brushing against my ear before he gently nibbled on it.

“Then we’re getting married,” I echoed breathlessly, my fingers tangling in his hair.

“Then let’s celebrate,” he murmured, lifting me into his arms once more, carrying me back to bed—making me giggle all over again.

Something felt strange. At first, I thought it was Nikolai trying to wake me again to celebrate our decision to get married, but no.

Suddenly, I struggled to breathe, a deep sense of unease dragging me from sleep. The room was still cloaked in darkness, and I knew I was right when I glanced at the clock: 3:46 a.m.

Nikolai was still asleep behind me, his face buried in my neck, his warm breath a soothing caress against my skin. I hesitated to wake him, but something felt wrong. Deeply wrong. “Nikolai,” I whispered, gently caressing the hand he had draped over my stomach.

“Nikolai,” I said again, louder this time, and he bolted upright, his sharp eyes locking onto mine, alert—as if he hadn’t been asleep at all.

“What is it ? Did you have a nightmare ? Are you in pain ?” he asked, his hand brushing over my cheek as his gaze scanned my body.

I shook my head, unable to explain the feeling gnawing at my chest. “Something feels off. I don’t know how to explain it…”

We both froze when a blood-curdling scream shattered the silence.

Sienna.

“Sienna !” I screamed, bolting out of bed, but Nikolai was already at the door, gun in hand.

He stopped me as I reached for the handle, holding me back, “stay here,” he ordered, pushing me toward the bed as he cautiously cracked the door open.

A choked gasp escaped me—shock, or maybe horror. A man dressed entirely in black, a mask covering his face, suddenly shoved the door wide open, forcing Nikolai back.

“Nikolai !” I cried out, but he was already lunging at the intruder, slamming him to the ground.

His fist crashed into the man’s face with a sickening crunch—his nose, likely broken. Then came another snap—the intruder’s arm twisted at an unnatural angle as he dropped his weapon.

“Don’t look,” Nikolai growled through gritted teeth.

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