Page 78 of Bratva Bidder
“But—”
“No.” I meet his eyes, soft but unflinching. “You’re here now. That’s enough for me.”
He holds my gaze, and for a moment, I feel him let go of the past too. Just for now.
I reach for my phone, the real world slowly bleeding back in. My fingers tremble a little as I tap Irina’s name. She picks up immediately.
“Are they alright?” I ask, voice tight.
“They’re okay,” she says. “Mila’s asleep. Nikolai’s resting again. Nothing’s changed.” She hesitates. “Areyoualright?”
“I’m on my way.”
We straighten our clothes—my skirt tugged down, his shirt smoothed though the buttons are still uneven—and a kind of fragile peace settles between us. He starts the engine; mist swirls off the hood as the heater kicks in, and headlights carve a glistening path through deserted streets. I stare out at slick asphalt shimmering under streetlamps, gathering courage to speak.
“What I did was incredibly reckless,” I confess, voice barely above the hum of the engine. “Running off. I abandoned my children.” Guilt claws at my throat as I say it out loud.
“You didn’t abandon them,” he replies, eyes fixed on the road yet somehow entirely on me. “You took ten minutes to breathe—something you’ve been denied for six years.” His hand leaves the wheel just long enough to find mine. “And I was the reason you needed that breath. I won’t forget that.”
I study the strong lines of his profile, the way lamplight flickers over the scar near his temple, and I realize he’s not theman I thought I’d married out of desperation. He’s something infinitely more complicated—still dangerous, but capable of gentleness I would never have believed if I hadn’t felt it.
“You’ve met both of them already?” I ask after a quiet stretch, needing to hear it from his own lips.
“Yes,” he says simply, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Mila found me first. Told me the elevator was too slow.” His voice softens. “They look just like my mother, Nadya. But they have your strength.”
My chest tightens—pride, fear, wonder, all tangled together—because for the first time I’m not carrying this secret alone. I squeeze his hand, grateful and terrified in equal measure, and lean my head against the cool glass, watching lights blur by.
The fluorescent lobby light feels harsher after the dark, rain-soaked car, but Konstantin’s hand stays wrapped around mine as we move through the hospital corridors.
Irina looks up the moment we step into Nikolai’s room. Her gaze flicks from our joined hands to Konstantin’s damp shirt, then to my flushed cheeks—but she asks no questions. Just offers a tired, knowing smile and quietly slips Mila off the cot and into my arms.
Nikolai stirs at the sound of her voice. I settle on the edge of the bed, cradling him close while I guide the small syringe of formula to his lips. He drinks slowly, eyelids fluttering, and I press a kiss to the soft curve of his forehead. Konstantin stands near the foot of the bed, muscles rigid, watching every swallow like it’s a miracle.
Mila rubs her sleepy eyes and pads over to Konstantin. Without hesitation she reaches up, tugging at his fingers. He crouchesinstinctively, large hands enveloping hers. “You okay, little star?” he murmurs. She nods solemnly, resting her head against his shoulder.
When Nikolai finishes, Irina slips the empty syringe from my hand. Her touch on my arm is gentle, approving, but it’s Konstantin’s voice that fills the quiet.
“Let me take Mila home,” he says softly, still kneeling. “She needs a warm bed. The estate is better than a hospital chair.”
I hesitate, thumb stroking Nikolai’s tiny knuckles. Letting her go without me feels like tearing off a limb, but the dark circles under Mila’s eyes speak for themselves. I look to Irina; she gives a discreet nod. Finally I lift my gaze to Konstantin.
“Only if she wants to go,” I say.
Mila answers for herself, climbing into his arms with tired trust. He rises smoothly, settling her against his chest like he’s done it all his life. “I’ll bring her back first thing,” he promises, eyes meeting mine with quiet certainty. “And coffee for you, zayka.”
Mila chooses him so easily. I know it’s exhaustion and soft father-gravity—nothing malicious, nothing she could possibly understand—but watching her curl against Konstantin’s chest sends an unwelcome spike of jealousy straight through me.
He abandoned us, a brittle voice whispers, even though another part of me protests that he didn’t remember, that he was half-dead in a Madrid hospital while I was alone, terrified, discovering I carried twins.
But memory loss? A fractured skull conveniently wiping out the week we met? It feels too neat, too cinematic. A sliver of distrust slides under my ribs and sticks there, aching.
Mila’s small fingers toy with the lapel of his jacket, already claiming him like she’s been waiting her whole life for this exact shoulder. She doesn’t tense at his unfamiliar cologne or the faint scent of gun oil; she just melts, trusting, as though his heartbeat is a lullaby she’s secretly known since the womb.
I force a careful smile and stroke Nikolai’s hair, but the jealous sting lingers. I hate that part of me—that raw, selfish edge that wants Mila to cling to me instead, to remember who rocked her through every fever and night terror. Yet I can’t deny the tenderness in the way Konstantin holds her—broad hand splayed protectively across her back, eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen before.
He didn’t remember, I remind myself firmly. Any sane woman would be grateful he’s here at all, grateful their children have a father who wants to try. My rational mind repeats the logic, but the hurt part of me still whispers it’s too convenient, too perfectly tragic. Which version of the truth do I trust?
Konstantin’s gaze flicks up and catches mine. Something in his expression falters—guilt or worry, I can’t tell. He senses the storm in me, even if he doesn’t understand its shape. Mila sighs, already half-asleep, and he shifts her higher, murmuring something soft in Russian I can’t quite hear. She nods in drowsy agreement, thumb finding her mouth the way it did when she was a baby.
