Page 123 of Scarlet Thorns
But my head is already telling me what my heart doesn’t want to acknowledge. The endometriosis has won. The stress, the isolation, the fear— it’s all culminated in this moment, this loss that I can feel happening in real time.
I’m losing the baby.
The thought drives me to my feet with manic energy, sending me rushing down the hallway toward Osip’s office. I don’t care that I’m wearing nothing but his shirt, don’t care that my hair is wild and my face is streaked with tears I don’t remember crying. I don’t care about dignity or composure or the fact that I might be overreacting.
I’m not overreacting!
I need him. I need him right now, and the desperation of that need should scare me, but I’m already too terrified to care about anything else.
He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do.
The office door is closed, but I can see light bleeding out from under it. He’s home.
Thank God, he’s home.
I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I burst through the door like my life depends on it.
Because maybe it does.
I just pray it’s not too late for my baby.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Osip
“I’m bleeding!”
The words rip through the hum of construction schedules and contractor bullshit spread across my desk as the door flies open with a crash. Every muscle in my body locks rigid as I snap my head up to find Ilona standing in my office doorway.
Bozhe moy!
Her face is chalk-white, that beautiful porcelain skin now the color of fresh snow. Dark circles bruise the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and she’s swaying slightly— like someone fighting to stay conscious.
Blood.
She said bleeding.
The baby!
“Yob tvoyu mat’!” The curse tears from my throat as I launch myself from behind the desk, papers scattering. My hands find her shoulders, steadying her trembling frame before she can collapse. “How much blood? How long?”
“I—” Her voice wavers, thin and frightened. “It started an hour ago. It’s getting worse.”
Jesus. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not again. Not to another woman carrying my child.
“We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
My voice sounds foreign— raw and desperate. But losing control is a luxury I can’t afford when the woman carrying my child is bleeding in my arms.
I sweep her up before she can protest, cradling her against my chest as I stride toward the garage. She weighs nothing— fragile as a snowflake and a million times more precious. Herhead falls against my shoulder, and I can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse through the thin fabric of my shirt she’s wearing.
“Stay with me,malyshka,” I murmur against her hair, Russian endearments spilling from lips that rarely speak anything soft. “I’ve got you.”
The BMW roars to life under my hands, cylinders screaming as I tear out of the driveway. Budapest’s winding roads become a blur of streetlights and speed limits that mean nothing when you’re racing death itself.
My hands shake as I speed-dial Dr. Varga, the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder while I navigate traffic like a man possessed.
“Dr. Varga.” His voice is calm, professional— everything I’m not right now.
