Page 29 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter twenty-six

The Bad News

A lexei

The call from Dr. Petrov comes at dawn, three days after the warehouse operation, while Mila is still sleeping off the exhaustion from our victory celebration.

"Mr. Morozov," his voice is carefully controlled through the phone. "I need to see you and Mrs. Morozov immediately. There's been a development with the pregnancy."

Ice floods my veins. "What kind of development?"

"I'd prefer to discuss this in person. Can you be here within the hour?"

"Is the baby—"

"The baby is fine. But there are... complications we need to address."

Complications. The word I've been dreading since the moment we learned Mila was pregnant.

"We'll be there," I tell him, then hang up and try to figure out how to wake my wife with news that could shatter our world.

Mila is curled on her side, one hand resting on her stomach in the unconscious protective gesture she's developed over the past few weeks. In sleep, she looks younger, more peaceful, blissfully unaware that our perfect pregnancy might not be so perfect after all.

"Mila," I say softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Wake up, beautiful."

She stirs, opening dark eyes that immediately focus on my face with the sharp awareness of someone who's learned to wake up ready for crisis.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"Dr. Petrov called. He wants to see us immediately."

"Is it the baby?"

"He says the baby is fine, but there are complications we need to discuss."

She's out of bed and reaching for clothes before I finish speaking, moving with the efficient urgency of someone who understands that medical emergencies don't wait for convenient timing.

The drive to Dr. Petrov's office is silent except for the sound of Mila's fingers drumming against her leg—the nervous tell that appears whenever she's trying to solve a problem with insufficient data.

"Complications could mean anything," she says finally.

"I know."

"High blood pressure, gestational diabetes, positioning issues—"

"Mila."

"Or it could be something more serious. Genetic abnormalities, developmental problems—"

"Mila, stop."

"I can't stop. I need to prepare for every possibility so I'm not blindsided by whatever he's going to tell us."

I reach across the console and take her hand, feeling the tremor in her fingers that betrays how scared she really is.

"Whatever it is, we'll handle it together," I tell her.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Dr. Petrov's examination room feels smaller than usual, more clinical, like the walls have moved closer together to contain whatever news is waiting for us.

The doctor himself looks tired, stressed, like he's been awake all night reviewing test results and trying to figure out the best way to deliver difficult information.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," he says, gesturing for us to sit. "I know this is concerning, but I want to assure you again that the baby appears to be healthy and developing normally."

"But?" Mila asks.

"But the ultrasound and blood work from your last visit revealed some information that changes our approach to your pregnancy care."

"What kind of information?" I ask.

Dr. Petrov pulls up images on his computer screen—ultrasound photos that look like abstract art to me, but clearly mean something significant to him.

"You're having twins," he says simply.

The words hang in the air like a bomb that hasn't exploded yet. Twins. Not one baby, but two. Not one heir to the Morozov name, but two children who will need protection and love and everything we've been planning for their single sibling.

"Twins," Mila repeats, her voice slightly breathless.

"Identical twins, sharing a placenta. Which is where the complications arise."

"Complications how?" I ask, my protective instincts already calculating risks and threats to both my wife and our children.

"Twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome is a possibility. It occurs when blood flow becomes uneven between the babies, causing one to receive too much and the other too little."

"Is that what's happening?" Mila asks.

"Not yet. But we need to monitor the pregnancy much more closely. Weekly ultrasounds, additional testing, possible bed rest if the condition develops."

"Bed rest meaning?"

"Complete bed rest. No work, no stress, no activities that could elevate your heart rate or blood pressure."

I can see Mila processing this information, running through the implications of being sidelined for potentially months while our children grow inside her.

"What are the risks if we don't follow these protocols?" she asks.

"Severe complications for both babies. Possible loss of one or both pregnancies."

The brutal honesty hits like a physical blow. We could lose them. After everything we've survived, after eliminating every external threat to our family, we could lose our children to a medical condition we can't fight with money or violence or careful planning.

"What are the risks if we do follow the protocols?" I ask.

"Significantly improved outcomes. With proper monitoring and care, most twin pregnancies with this condition result in healthy babies."

"Most?"

"Eighty percent success rate with early intervention and careful management."

Eighty percent. Not the hundred percent certainty I want, but better odds than we had against Roman or Elena Volkov.

"When do we start the increased monitoring?" Mila asks.

"Today. I want another ultrasound to establish baseline measurements, then weekly visits from here forward."

The next hour passes in a blur of additional testing and measurements, with Dr. Petrov explaining the warning signs we need to watch for and the protocols we'll need to follow.

By the time we leave his office, my mind is spinning with new security considerations. Twin pregnancies mean higher risks, which means Mila needs even more protection and medical support than we'd planned.

"Twins," she says as we settle into the car for the drive home.

"Twins."

"Two babies, Alexei. Two little people who are going to need everything we planned for one child, times two."

"I know."

"Twice the college funds, twice the security details, twice the everything."

"I know."

"Are you okay with this?"

I turn to look at her, this brave, beautiful woman who's carrying not one but two of my children despite the risks and complications and everything that could go wrong.

"Am I okay with having twins with the woman I love more than life itself?" I ask. "Mila, I'm more than okay. I'm terrified and thrilled and completely overwhelmed."

"Terrified because of the medical risks?"

"Terrified because I love you and them so much that the thought of anything happening to any of you makes me want to lock you in a padded room surrounded by medical equipment."

"Which you're not going to do."

"Which I'm going to want to do."

"But you're not going to actually do it."

"I'm going to try very hard not to actually do it."

She laughs, the sound bright and genuine despite everything we've just learned.

"We're really having twins," she says wonderingly.

"We're really having twins."

"Viktor would have been so excited. He always wanted to be the fun uncle who spoiled his nieces and nephews."

"He's going to be the best guardian angel two babies ever had."

"Think he's watching over them? Making sure they're okay?"

"I think Viktor is exactly where he needs to be to protect what matters most to him."

The drive home passes in comfortable contemplation as we both process the magnitude of what we've learned. Twins. Two children who will grow up knowing they're loved and wanted and protected by parents who would move heaven and earth to keep them safe.

"Alexei," Mila says as we turn through the estate gates.

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

"About the medical risks?"

"About everything. The risks, the bed rest, the possibility that something could go wrong and we could lose them."

"We're not going to lose them."

"You don't know that."

"I know that we have access to the best medical care money can buy. I know that Dr. Petrov has successfully managed complicated pregnancies before. And I know that our children are stubborn enough to inherit your determination and my refusal to give up."

"You think stubbornness is genetic?"

"I think our twins don't stand a chance of being anything but strong-willed and impossible to defeat."

"Good. They're going to need that in our world."

"They're going to have everything they need in our world. Love, protection, resources, and two parents who will do anything to ensure their happiness."

We reach the house, where Irina is waiting with the kind of excited anticipation that suggests she already knows our news.

"Well?" she asks the moment we walk through the door.

"Twins," Mila announces.

Irina's face lights up with pure joy. "Twins! Oh, this is wonderful news. The nursery will need to be completely redesigned, of course. Two cribs, twice the storage, separate sleeping areas for when they're older..."

"Irina," I interrupt gently, "there are some medical considerations we need to discuss."

Her expression immediately shifts to concern. "Is everything all right?"

"It will be, with proper care. But Mila may need bed rest at some point in the pregnancy."

"Complete bed rest?"

"Possibly."

"Then we'll need a hospital-quality bedroom setup. Monitoring equipment, medical staff on-site, everything necessary to ensure the babies' health."

I can see Mila starting to look overwhelmed by the scope of changes ahead of us.

"One thing at a time," I tell both of them. "Today we celebrate that we're having twins. Tomorrow we start planning for what they'll need."

"And tonight?" Mila asks.

"Tonight I show my wife how grateful I am that she's carrying our children."

"Both of them?"

"Especially both of them."

The afternoon passes in a haze of phone calls and planning sessions as word of the twins spreads through our extended family. Dmitri is thrilled about the prospect of two new Morozovs to spoil. Mila's parents are over the moon about becoming grandparents to twins.

By evening, we're both exhausted from the emotional roller coaster of the day.

"Come here," I tell Mila as she settles onto our bed with a pregnancy book about twins.

"Where?"

"Right here. I want to talk to our babies."

She shifts to lean against the headboard, and I position myself so I can rest my head against her stomach.

"Hello, little ones," I say to her belly. "Your papa just learned there are two of you in there, and he couldn't be happier."

"They can't hear you yet," Mila says softly, her fingers threading through my hair.

"They can feel the vibrations. And even if they can't, I want them to know from the very beginning that they're wanted and loved."

"What else do you want them to know?"

"That they're going to have the most amazing mama in the world. Someone who's brave and smart and beautiful and absolutely devoted to their wellbeing."

"And the most protective papa in the world."

"Someone who will love them unconditionally and move heaven and earth to keep them safe."

"Even when they're teenagers and doing stupid things?"

"Especially when they're teenagers and doing stupid things."

I press a soft kiss to her stomach, then move up to claim her mouth in a kiss that's gentle and reverent and full of all the love and gratitude I can't put into words.

"I love you," I murmur against her lips.

"I love you too."

"And I love our babies."

"They love you back."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can feel them getting more active when you talk to them."

"Really?"

"Really. They know their papa's voice already."

The knowledge fills me with a warmth that has nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with the family we're creating together.

"Dr. Petrov said no strenuous activity," I say as my hands begin to roam over her body.

"He said no strenuous activity. He didn't say no touching."

"What did he say about touching?"

"He said gentle intimacy is perfectly fine as long as we're careful."

"Define gentle."

"Slow, careful, focused on emotional connection rather than athletic achievement."

"I can do slow and careful."

"Can you?"

"For you and our babies? I can do anything."

When I make love to her this time, it's with the reverent care of a man worshipping something sacred. Every touch is soft, every kiss is tender, every movement is designed to bring pleasure without causing stress to the precious cargo she carries.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper as I move inside her slowly, carefully. "So perfect. Carrying our children like the miracle you are."

"I love you," she gasps softly. "I love you so much."

"I love you too. All of you. Forever."

The climax builds slowly, sweetly, like a promise of all the gentle moments we'll share over the coming months. When she comes apart beneath me, it's with soft sighs and gentle tremors that speak of complete trust and safety.

I follow her over the edge with her name on my lips and gratitude in my heart for the woman who's giving me everything I never knew I wanted.

Afterward, we lie tangled together in contentment, my hand resting on her stomach where our twins grow.

"Seven months," she says dreamily.

"Seven months until we meet them."

"Are you ready to be outnumbered?"

"Are you kidding? I've been outnumbered since the day I married you."

"Just wait until there are two more of us ganging up on you."

"I can't wait."

And it's true. Whatever challenges lie ahead, whatever medical complications we need to navigate, whatever adjustments we need to make—I can't wait to meet the two little people who are going to complete our family in the most perfect way possible.

Twins. Our beautiful, wanted, already-loved twins.

The future has never looked brighter.