Page 36

ROMAN

B lood.

It flooded my senses. I could smell it, taste it, hear it dripping onto the white tile floor. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see it. I could feel it draining from my wife as she left me here, alone.

The bright white, sterile walls of the hospital were closing in on me as I paced the length of the corridor. My boots hit the floor in sharp, agitated strides, the only sound I could hear over my heart roaring in my chest.

My nose was filled with the stringent scent of antiseptic and the distinct metallic odor of blood. There was no escaping it.

Not just anyone’s blood. Zoya’s blood.

My hands were wet and stained as I ran them through my dark hair.

Not stained with blood, but with the sweat of helplessness—the one thing I had never been able to tolerate.

All my cousins were here with me. The men stood along the hallway like guards ready to jump to her aid. They weren’t here to save her. They were here to save the medical staff from me if something went wrong.

They were going to have to drop me like a rabid dog if it did.

Their wives sat in the waiting room, together with the children.

Everyone especially doted on Pavel’s sweet baby girl, Irina—a beautiful name his wife had chosen, one that meant peace.

They were offering support and sympathy as we waited for news. Or they would’ve been, if I’d let them get close.

No one was dumb enough to approach me.

My thoughts must have been reflected in my eyes.

All I could think about was blood.

Zoya’s blood.

The liquid that gave her life was pouring from her body in endless rivers, flooding the floor of the surgical suite, draining her life from her.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her beautiful ivory skin getting whiter, closer to death, and the brilliant green of her eyes fading as she slipped from existence.

That—and blood. So much blood. Pouring from her, draining the light and the fight from the woman I loved more than anyone or anything.

I was scared.

No, that wasn’t true. I was so far past scared.

For the first time in my life, I was just as terrified as I was livid.

She knew. She knew months before she told me.

She waited until there was nothing that could be done about it because she wanted to give this to me. To us.

And the other wives helped her.

God help them if she didn’t get out of this alive.

I would burn the entire Ivanov empire to the ground.

Zoya was supposed to be untouchable. She should have been safe. It was my job to keep her safe. She should have lived forever—because how the hell was I supposed to exist in a world without her?

I always said I understood what my father went through when my mother died. That I didn’t blame him.

But in truth, I did blame him.

I blamed him my entire life for leaving me with that horrible woman.

Leaving me without a father.

Chasing a vendetta.

My mother would’ve hated him for abandoning a scared ten-year-old child in an unfamiliar country with people who didn’t love him.

She would’ve hated what his family made me.

She wanted me to be a diplomat, a scholar.

Instead I was a brute. I was the man who had never shied away from blood and gore… until now.

My mother’s death—and my father’s abandonment—made me this.

And now, Zoya’s death was going to finish the job and drag me down to hell.

But now I truly understood what he felt, and why he felt he needed to do what he did.

The truth of it all weighed down on my chest, stealing my breath. My soul.

There wasn’t a single thing I wouldn’t do to ensure that my wife walked out of this hospital whole.

But there was nothing I could do.

It was all out of my hands.

My sweaty, shaking hands.

I paced the hallway again, nurses practically running to get out of my way. One look at my face, and they all scattered.

Security was called twice.

But none of them had the balls to get near me… or my cousins, who surrounded me like a defiant, loyal wall of support.

Another lap down the sterile corridor and my skin was buzzing, itching like it was a size too small.

The hallway was too narrow, and it got smaller with every single lap.

There was too much energy in my body, too much anxiety, and oh my God, what was happening with my wife .

A scream shattered the silence in the hallway and stopped the spinning terror in my head cold.

Zoya’s scream.

High-pitched, loud, and desperate.

My breath locked in my throat. My entire body went completely rigid.

I wasn’t supposed to go in there.

The doctors had kicked me out, saying I was in the way and putting her life at risk.

If she wasn’t okay, somebody’s life was definitely going to be at risk—but it wouldn’t just be mine.

When she screamed again, I broke.

I slammed through the doors, ignoring the shouts of the doctors and the orderlies who tried to stop me.

They might have succeeded if their gloved hands weren’t covered in my wife’s blood.

I shoved them aside.

My mind was completely blank except for one thought.

Zoya.

Protect Zoya.

Save Zoya.

Save the love of my life.

I shoved more and more people out of the way—throwing a few of them—until I saw her.

And my heart stopped at the sight.

There was blood everywhere.

So much blood.

The operating room was a storm of chaos.

Nurses moved under the harsh glow of surgical lights making the puddles of dark red liquid gleam, and my stomach dropped.

Machines beeped wildly. The sharp antiseptic wasn’t enough to cover the metallic scent of her blood.

I looked up at her face, bracing for the absolute worst.

And those beautiful green eyes of hers smiled into mine.

For a moment, I thought I was seeing an angel.

I thought maybe she’d died, and God was gracious enough to give me one last glimpse of her before taking her from me.

Her eyes were still so bright.

Zoya.

My wife.

She wasn’t an angel.

She was here. Alive.

Despite everything—she was alive.

Her face was flushed, but radiant with a thin sheen of sweat over her skin. Her eyes were on me—still so warm, and full of something much deeper than life itself.

She smiled at me, and the world seemed right again.

That smile was the reason I woke up every morning.

“Come here,” she said, her voice hoarse but filled with something fierce and unbreakable.

Her fingers lifted, reaching for me, and the world snapped back into focus.

My feet moved before my brain caught up.

I was at her bedside in a heartbeat, gripping her hand like a lifeline, swallowing hard against the storm of emotions tightening my throat.

She lived.

She was going to be okay.

Then—my world changed forever.

I heard it.

A sound, small and frail.

A tiny gasping cry.

Zoya tilted her head, her smile turning soft, knowing, victorious.

She had fought a battle most thought she couldn’t win.

I had doubted her strength.

I should have known better.

“Come meet your son, husband.”