Page 41 of Scarlet Thorns
I find her in the sitting room.
She’s on the cream sofa, perfectly positioned like she’s napping. One hand rests over her swollen belly, the other dangles toward the Persian rug. Her dark hair spills across the silk cushions, and her face looks peaceful. Serene.
Too peaceful.
“Galina.” I cross the room, my pulse starting to race for reasons I can’t name. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. The wrongness hits me before conscious thought can process it— the unnatural stillness, the way her chest doesn’t rise and fall, the absolute absence of life in a space that should pulse with it.
I’ve seen enough death to recognize it instantly.
“No.” The word escapes as I drop beside the sofa, hands reaching for her throat to check for a pulse I already know won’t be there. “No, no, no—”
Her skin is room temperature. Not warm, not alive, just… gone. The woman who made me tea every morning, who arranged paint samples like treasure maps, who carried my child with quiet dignity— gone.
That’s when I see the cord.
Thin, black, expensive. The kind used for window blinds or electronic equipment. It’s partially hidden beneath her hair, wrapped around her throat. No struggle marks on her hands. No signs of a fight.
Someone did this. Someone came into my home and murdered my pregnant wife while I was fucking another woman. Mere minutes ago.
The realization crushes me, making me choke on air that suddenly feels too thick.
While I was fucking another woman, while I was lost in burgundy velvet and lace masks, someone was strangling the life from the only family I had.
Then I see it.
Movement. Beneath the fabric of her maternity shirt, something shifts. I tug the soft fabric aside urgently. Something pushes against the taut skin of her belly with desperate, rhythmic motion.
My son.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
“Bozhe moy,” I whisper, hands hovering over her abdomen as tiny feet press against the inside of her womb. My pulse starts racing even more, my heartbeat pounding like a war drum against my eardrums, drowning out everything except my son’s feeble movements. “Hang on,malysh. Papa’s here.”
The sight is beautiful and horrifying— my child struggling for survival inside his murdered mother. Each movement feels like a countdown, precious seconds ticking away while I stand paralyzed by shock and fury.
Jesus Christ, what do I do?
What the fuck do I do?
My phone is in my hands before conscious thought intervenes, fingers dialing emergency services with muscle memory forged in crisis.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My wife—” The words stick in my throat. “She’s been murdered. She’s pregnant. The baby might still— please, hurry.”
“Sir, I need you to stay calm. What’s your address?”
I rattle off the information while watching my son’s movements grow weaker, less frequent. I’ve stared death in the face countless times. I’ve faced enemies who would gut me without hesitation. But this sight— it shatters something deep inside me that I thought was already dead, something I never knew could still bleed. Each kick feels like a goodbye, a farewell I’m powerless to prevent.
God, please help.
“Paramedics are en route. Are you safe? Is the perpetrator still in the area?”
Safe. What a fucking joke. I’ll never be safe again. Not after this. Not from myself.
