Page 90 of Cinderella and the Daddy

Twenty minutes later, we're both on hospital beds in a private room. Turns out being a scary Russian mobster is exactly the motivation the emergency department staff needed.

Cindy lies on her side facing me, her hand stretched across the narrow space between our beds to maintain contact while a nurse cleans my shoulder. The nurse is nervous. She won’t even look me in the eyes.

Good.

"This might sting," the nurse warns, but her hands are shaking as she irrigates the wound.

The saline hits like acid, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from cursing. Through and through is good—no bullet to dig out—but the exit wound is ragged. Probably caught the edge of my shoulder blade on the way through.

"You need surgery," she says quietly. "There could be bone fragments, and this bleeding?—"

"Just pack it and stitch what you can."

"Sir, I really must insist?—"

I turn my head to look at her directly. "Stitch it."

She swallows hard and reaches for the suture kit. I feel the needle pierce already screaming flesh, feel the drag of thread through meat. No lidocaine—we don't have time for numbing to take effect. I focus on Cindy's voice from the next bed, using it as an anchor while the nurse does her best with hands that won't quite steady.

"Fourteen stitches," she murmurs when she's done, taping gauze over her work. "You need antibiotics, proper wound care, and?—"

"Write it down," I tell her. "All of it. I'll follow up with my own doctor."

We both know I mean someone who won't ask questions about gunshot wounds or file mandatory reports.

The door opens, and a middle-aged woman in scrubs enters, her expression professional but cautious. Dr. Sarah Frost, according to her badge. Everything about her body language suggests she's been briefed on exactly who she's dealing with.

"Mrs. Markovic?" she asks. I see Cindy's slight flinch at the assumption. We haven't corrected anyone tonight about our marital status—it's easier to let them believe what they want than explain our complicated situation.

"Just some routine checks," Dr. Frost continues, pulling on latex gloves. "I understand you've had a stressful evening."

Stressful. Right. Like nearly being burned alive by her psychotic siblings qualifies as mere stress.

"I'm fine," Cindy repeats, but her voice lacks conviction now. "I just want to make sure the baby is okay."

"Of course. Let's start with listening to the heartbeat."

Dr. Frost produces a small handheld device, squirting gel onto Cindy's exposed abdomen before placing the probe against her skin. For a moment, there's nothing but static. My chest tightens with a fear I don't want to acknowledge.

Then we hear it.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

Fast, strong, steady. The sound of life. The needle in my shoulder stops registering as pain, replaced by something so overwhelming it takes my breath away.

Our baby. Our child. Alive.

"Strong heartbeat," Dr. Frost confirms, a genuine smile replacing her earlier nervousness. "Sounds absolutely perfect."

I watch Cindy's face as tears streak down her cheeks. The love on her face makes something crack open in my chest. It’s a strange sensation.

I love Leo. I’ll protect him with my life. This feeling I have is ten times stronger than that.

Holy shit.

I love her.

"We could do an ultrasound," Dr. Frost offers nervously as she glances between us. "If you would like to see the baby."