Page 159 of Bratva's Vow
I huffed a short breath, choking on something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t hurt so much. “Thanks. You’ve really got a way with words, solnyshko.”
“I mean it,” he whispered, throat working. “Your eyes… you haven’t slept.”
“Couldn’t.” I traced the back of his hand with my thumb, grounding myself. “Didn’t want to miss a second in case you needed me.”
“Who’s taking care of Jellybean?”
“Jess has him.”
“Good.” He fell silent. Just stared at me, eyes glassy, like he was seeing through me or maybe into me. His lip trembled. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t.”
His hand weakly gripped mine. “Don’t want to die alone.”
Something shattered inside me.
I swallowed hard, leaning in until my forehead touched his. “You’re not dying, Wren. You hear me? You’re not. But even if you were—if the world split in two and the sky came crashing down—I’d still be here. Right here. You’ll never be alone.”
He sighed like the words filled a hollow space inside him. His eyes fluttered closed again, lashes damp against too-pale cheeks.
I waited, holding my breath.
But his chest rose and fell.
Still breathing.
Still fighting.
I stayed there, forehead to his, whispering nothing into the quiet. Words he probably couldn’t hear, but I said them anyway. Just in case some part of him was listening.
“I love you,” I whispered.
And the machines kept beeping. One after another. One beat closer to hope.
I got a text from Nik that Archie was on his way to the hospital. How fucking bold of him to think he could visit Wren and act like he was innocent. Like he hadn’t hired a housekeeper with the intention of poisoning Wren. I’d been so gullible that I hadn’t even questioned it when he offered to help me find one.
Since Sergei told me the news of Pilar’s death, all doubt had fled my mind. The one person I trusted without reservation was responsible for the love of my life being in the hospital, fighting the toxins from the poison in his system.
The results came in an hour ago. Thallium confirmed.
Leo had explained the treatment plan as calmly as if he were reciting the weather. But nothing about it felt calm to me. He would need to take the Prussian blue multiple times a day, which would bind to the thallium in his body and flush it out through the stool. He’d also been hooked to potassium supplements to speed up the excretion, his electrolyte levels monitored round the clock. There’d been talk of activated charcoal too, in case any of the toxin still lingered in his GI tract.
His blood and urine would be tested daily to track progress, and he would undergo neurological observation for worsening symptoms.
For now, everything hinged on the next forty-eight hours—how his body responded to treatment, if his kidneys held up, if the damage to his nerves could be reversed.
If he made it through that window without complications—no seizures, no cardiac episodes, no organ failure—then the focus would shift to stabilization. Another few days of inpatient care. Daily blood work. Pain management. Physical assessments. Watching for signs of nerve damage that might worsen, even after the toxin had cleared. They’d already noticed mild motor weakness in his right leg. Leo had warned that recovery from thallium exposure wasn’t always linear.
If all went well, Wren could be discharged in a week. Ten days at most if no complications. But that wouldn’t be the end of it.
He’d need physiotherapy. Continued potassium and magnesium support. A nutrition plan that didn’t irritate his raw stomach. Regular check-ins with a neurologist and toxicologist. And rest—more rest than he’d ever be willing to admit he needed.
Even then, there might be lingering effects. Fatigue. Mood changes. A body that wouldn’t feel quite like his own for a long while.
And for what?
Because someone decided to erase him, one sip at a time.
