Page 159 of Jewel of the Assassin
And then?—
A rush of relief, as if something inside me finally lets go.
But no sound.
My heart lurches into my throat. The baby. Our son. Why isn’t he crying?
“Roman.” My voice breaks, sheer panic tearing through my chest.
The doctor is calm, steady. A suction tube clears our son’s nose and mouth. Then—just a brisk, tender spank to his tiny bottom.
A wail. Thin, raw, piercing—and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
I sob. Roman kisses my temple. “Do you hear him, Valya? Our son.” His voice is fierce, reverent. “Like me, moya zhena. Calm. Controlled. Until he is forced to roar.”
I nod through tears as they lift the squirming, red little body into view before whisking him to be checked. He is perfect. A mop of beautiful blonde curls. He is ours.
I think it’s over. Relief cascades through me. But then the doctor doesn’t stop. She adjusts her instruments, glances toward her team, and bends back to her work between my legs.
Roman stiffens beside me. I feel his hand tighten around mine.
“Why isn’t she sewing me up?” I whisper.
The doctor looks over the curtain with a spark of amazement in her eyes. “Mrs. Makarova…there isanother.”
“What?” I ask, panting, breathless. My chest seizes.
Another rush of pressure, pulling, tugging. Seconds later, I hear it—another cry. Higher, sharper, furious with life.
“It’s a girl!” the doctor proclaims, holding her quaking, screaming form up for us to see. “A hidden twin. It’s not unheard of. Quite rare but not impossible. Not even our instruments detected her heartbeat.”
A girl. Our daughter.
Roman laughs in disbelief, a rough, startled sound that bursts into warmth. His forehead falls against mine. “Our cunning little girl. Just like her mother, waiting for her grand entrance.”
Tears stream down my face as they hold her up. Two. We have two.
My breath catches. I zero in on the closest nurse who approaches with our son. I smile because he’s already calmed. No more crying. Just sweet, tender gurgles. Not like our daughter.
“God, she has a set of lungs on her!” Roman marvels with a laugh.
I can’t stop crying. But when the nurse offers to put our naked son on my chest, I look up at Roman. “Would you mind holding him first, Romy?”
“Of course. I was going to insist on holding one of them before you.” He adjusts the medical, plastic gown and takes our oldest child in his arms, wrapping his small, naked form onto his chest. He lifts a brow, however, and I know he is wondering why I am waiting for our daughter first.
They don’t need to suction her nose. They don’t need to slap her bottom. She’s still wailing, slick with blood and fluid, her tiny fists thrashing against the shock of the world.
My heartlurches.
Not because she is messy. Not because she is loud.
But because of the full head of dark, near-black hair that glistens wet under the surgical lights. Thatcursed inheritance—it belongs to the monsters who tried to break us.
For a split second, pain tears through me from memory. Roman’s father. Roman’s brother. Their shadows in my daughter’s hair.
But also…Sasha. Yes, she has my brother’s hair.
I choke on a breath, my arms straining up before I can stop myself. “Mine.”
