Page 124 of Scarlet Thorns
“It’s Osip. Ilona’s bleeding. We’re en route to the hospital— meet us there. Emergency.”
A pause that lasts forever. “How much bleeding?”
“I don’t know— she’s pale, weak.Bozhe, what if—?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Drive carefully, Osip. Accidents won’t help anyone.”
The line goes dead, leaving me alone with the engine’s roar and the sound of Ilona’s labored breathing. I steal glances at her in the passenger seat, watching the way her hand rests protectively over her abdomen. The same gesture I remember from another woman, a lifetime ago.
Galina.
The memory steals my breath. The paramedics working frantically while I stood frozen… useless.
Nyet!
Not again. Never fucking again.
“Ilona.” I reach over, covering her hand with mine. Her skin is ice-cold, clammy with shock. “Talk to me. Stay awake.”
“I’m scared,” she whispers, and something inside my chest cracks. “What if we lose—?”
“We won’t.” The words come out sharp with a conviction I don’t feel. “I won’t let that happen.”
The hospital’s emergency entrance blazes with fluorescent light as I skid to a halt in front of the doors. Orderlies appear like magic— professional efficiency taking over where my panic threatens to consume everything. They transfer Ilona to a gurney with smooth movements that speak of too much experience with emergencies like this.
Dr. Varga materializes beside me, his usually calm expression etched with concern. “Talk to me— when did the bleeding start?”
“An hour ago.” I’m walking briskly beside the gurney, my hand wrapped around Ilona’s fingers. “She came to my office, said it was getting worse.”
“Any cramping? Pain?”
“I don’t know.”Blyad, I should know these things. Should have been watching her more carefully, monitoring every symptom. “Ilona?”
But she’s slipping away from us, eyelids fluttering as shock takes hold. The orderlies push through double doors marked ‘SURGICAL UNIT — NO ADMITTANCE’, and suddenly I’m standing in an empty hallway with the taste of copper fear coating my tongue.
“Mr. Sidorov.” Dr. Varga’s hand settles on my shoulder. “We’ll take good care of her. But you need to wait here.”
Wait?
Pizdets!
Waiting is what you do when you’re powerless, when all the money and connections and carefully constructed control mean nothing against the chaos of biology failing.
I sink into a plastic chair that’s probably seen too many moments like this, elbows on my knees, hands buried in my hair. The hospital smells like disinfectant and fear—the same smell that haunted my dreams after Galina died. Sterile whiteness that can’t mask the reality of bodies breaking down, hope bleeding out onto surgical tables.
Minutes crawl by like hours. Each tick of the wall clock echoes marks time I’ll never get back. Time when my child might be dying inside the woman I—
Cut it out, mudak.
The voice in my head sounds like Melor’s pragmatic tone, cutting through emotion.
You killed her father, dolboyob.
This is all business.
You can’t get attached.
But the rules I’ve lived by all my life— the careful distance, the emotional armor, the safety of treating everyone as temporary— crumble to dust against the reality of Ilona’s blood on hospital sheets.
