The door blew inward with the force of a hurricane.

Smoke curled into the air, gun raised, vision sharp.

Three men.

I didn’t see faces.

I saw hands that had touched what was mine.

One raised his weapon.
He died first—bullet to the eye. Clean.

Second reached for his belt.
Two steps. A shot through the ribs. Collapsed in a heap.

The third tried to run.
Coward. Wrong move.

I grabbed him mid-turn, slammed his skull into the wall. The crack echoed like thunder. His body slid down like a broken puppet.

Blood pooled. Silence fell.

And then—I saw her.

Her.

My Ameya.

Tied to a chair in the corner like a prisoner in some godforsaken nightmare.

Her lips were bleeding.

Her face bruised.

Her eyes…

They saw me.

And shattered.

I dropped my weapon. Crossed the room in three heartbeats. Fell to my knees like a sinner before salvation.

“Ameya...”
Her name left my mouth like a prayer. Like a curse. Like a promise.

Her breath hitched. “Ivan...”

I touched her face, so gently I was afraid she’d break.

“You’re okay,” I whispered. My voice wasn’t steady. I didn’t care. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m here. I’m here now.”

The ropes were tight. Her skin raw.

I tore them off, not caring if they burned my palms.

She collapsed against me the second she was free. Her body limp, cold, too light.

I caught her.

I always would.

I crushed her into my chest, holding her like she was life itself.

And in that moment, nothing else existed. Not the blood. Not the bodies. Not the screams in my head.

Only her.

I kissed every part of her I could reach—her hair, her cheek, her temple.

“Ты в безопасности.”
(You’re safe.)

“Ты дома.”
(You’re home.)

I whispered Russian into her skin like spells.

“Моя жена. Моя жизнь. Моя любовь.”
(My wife. My life. My love.)

She sobbed into my neck. But not in fear.

In relief.

Because even in hell—she believed I would come.

And she was right.

Because I will always find her.

I will always burn the world for her.

And God help anyone who tries to take her from me again.

I had just lifted Ameya into my arms, her body weak, her skin chilled through from the cellar’s dampness. But she was breathing. Conscious. Safe.

I was seconds from carrying her out—back to the world, to warmth, to light.

And then—a voice.

Low. Unhinged.

“Ты сошёл с ума… из-за неё?”
(You’ve gone mad… for her?)

Elizaveta.

She stepped from the shadows, gun in hand, her eyes wild with hate and heartbreak. Her hair was loose, mascara smeared. Unrecognizable from the icy beauty I once knew.

Her gaze flicked to Ameya—crumpled, bruised, bleeding—and she sneered.

“This? This fat, weak, useless little thing? What is it about her, Ivan?! What has she given you that I never could?!”

My grip on Ameya tightened.

“Elizaveta,” I warned, voice dark and razor-sharp. “Put the gun down.”

Her lip trembled, but her hands didn’t.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “If I can’t have you… she won’t either.”

And just like that—she aimed at Ameya.

My instincts roared. I stepped in front of her without thinking, ready to take the bullet, ready to bleed for her.

But Ameya moved first.

“Ivan, no!”

She pushed me sideways with what little strength she had left.

And the world exploded.

BANG.

I turned just in time to see the bullet slice through her arm.

She fell.

I caught her before she hit the ground.

Her blood soaked my shirt. Her eyes fluttered, wide and wet, but she was alive.

“No. No no no no…” I whispered, cradling her as the red spread.

“Ameya… Zaya, moya…” (My bunny, my love…)

Behind me, there was chaos—shouting, boots stomping, someone tackling Elizaveta to the ground.

I didn’t care.

I only saw her.

Her body trembling, her face twisted in pain, but her gaze locked on mine.

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I felt something in me break wide open.

I kissed her forehead, her hair, her shoulder—anywhere I could reach.

“You idiot,” I choked. “That was supposed to be me.”

She smiled faintly. “I know.”

She was in my arms.

Bleeding.

Pale.

Too still.

Her blood soaked through my shirt, my skin, down to my soul.

And I was losing her.

“AMBULANCE! GET ME A FUCKING AMBULANCE!” I screamed, my voice cracking in a way it hadn’t in years. Not since I was a boy. Not since Mama died.

But no one moved fast enough.

So I didn’t wait.

I ran to the SUV. Slammed the door. Sped through the icy roads with her in the back seat, Kira pressing cloth to her wound, tears streaming down her face.

I kept glancing at the mirror.

Her head was in Kira’s lap.

Her lips were trembling.

Eyes fluttering.

“Stay awake, zaika,” I begged. My voice was rough. Broken. “Stay with me, baby. Stay with me.”

Her lips moved.

Barely.

“Ivan…”

“Don’t talk. Save your strength. Just breathe. That’s all you have to do.”

But her eyes started to close.

And I broke.

Tears blurred the road in front of me. My hands clenched the wheel so tight I thought I’d snap it in two.

“Mama…” I choked, voice shaking as I sped through the dark. “Please. Please don’t take her. Not her. Take me instead. Take anything—just not her.”

The words tore out of me like blood from a wound I didn’t know I had.

“I finally found her!” I yelled to the sky. “She’s the only good thing I’ve ever had. Everything you ever wanted for me. You can’t take her away now!”

The road blurred.

Snow whipped against the windshield.

But nothing drowned out the sound of her breathing fading.

Kira cried softly. “She’s still breathing, Vanya. Hold on. She’s fighting.”

Not fast enough.

Not safe enough.

I floored the gas.

Hospital lights broke through the dark like salvation.

I slammed the brakes, leapt out, tore open the back door.

Lifted her in my arms again.

She didn’t stir.

“HELP!” I roared into the cold night. “SOMEONE HELP ME!”

Doctors ran forward.

Nurses reached for her.

I wouldn’t let go.

“She’s going into surgery—”

“I’M COMING WITH HER!”

They tried to push me back, to reason with me.

They didn’t understand.

She wasn’t just my wife.

She was my sanity.

My soul.

My home.

And as I stood there, her blood staining my hands, my chest, my heart—I prayed.

I begged.

Please don’t take her from me.

Not now.

Not ever.

The corridor was still.

Too still.

My ears rang from the silence. The buzz of the overhead lights, the soft hum of hospital machines, Kira’s quiet sobs beside me—none of it registered.

I stared at the double doors.

I had been watching them for hours. Praying. Bargaining. Dying slowly in every minute that passed without her.

My hands were stiff with dried blood—hers.

I couldn’t even move.

Then finally—they opened.

A doctor stepped out. Tired, focused, her gloves already off.

I stood up like a man waking from a nightmare. My knees nearly gave out beneath me.

“Volkov?” she said gently.

I could only nod.

“She’s safe,” the doctor said. “The surgery was successful. The bullet passed cleanly through the upper arm. No major arteries were hit. She lost some blood, but she’s stable. She’s going to make a full recovery.”

The floor tilted.

I gripped the edge of the bench behind me to stay upright.

“She’s… alive?” I whispered. “She’s okay?”

“Yes,” the doctor nodded. “And the baby is fine too.”

I blinked.

Hard.

I thought I misheard.

“…What?”

“The baby,” she repeated, casually, as if she had just commented on the weather. “She’s in her early pregnancy. A little over six weeks, we estimate. But everything looks stable. We’ll continue monitoring closely.”

I couldn’t breathe.

I looked at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language. Like the world had stopped turning.

“P-pregnant?” I rasped.

The doctor frowned faintly, surprised. “She didn’t tell you?”

My heart slammed into my ribs.

Pregnant.

She’s carrying my child.

I staggered back a step, hand to my chest, barely able to speak.

“She… she was going to tell me, maybe. I… I didn’t know.”

The doctor’s expression softened. “Well, she’s alright. Both of them are. You can see her. She’s resting now.”

I barely heard the rest.

There was blood in my veins again.

Fire in my lungs.

And love—too much love—to fit inside one body.

I nodded numbly and turned toward the hallway.

She hadn’t just come back to me.

She brought something with her.

A heartbeat I didn’t know I already loved.

I walked through the cold hallway like I was in a dream.

Only, it wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

She was alive.

She was safe.

And… she was carrying my child.

The thought still echoed through me like a thunderclap.

I paused outside the room, staring at the nameplate. My hand trembled on the door handle.

She hadn’t told me.

She was going to. Maybe after Russia. Maybe when the time was right.

Maybe when she wasn’t busy shielding me from a fucking bullet.

I opened the door softly.

The room smelled of antiseptic and lavender. Soft beeps from machines monitored her heartbeat, her breath—each one tethering me back to sanity.

And there she was.

Lying in the white sheets. Her arm bandaged, her face still pale. But her chest rose and fell.

She was breathing.

Alive.

My girl. My wife. My entire damn world.

She looked smaller in the hospital bed, vulnerable in a way I never wanted to see again.

And then I saw it.

Her hand.

Resting over her belly in sleep.

Not conscious.

Not intentional.

Instinctive.

Like even her soul knew she was protecting something.

Our baby.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening with something too big to name.

I stepped forward, quietly, not wanting to wake her. I dropped to my knees beside the bed.

Carefully, I reached for her free hand and pressed it against my lips.

“I didn’t know,” I whispered, my voice broken. “You were carrying so much, Ameya… and I didn’t even see it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek in sleep. Or maybe it was mine.

I pressed my forehead to the back of her hand and let myself feel everything—terror, love, guilt, awe.

“Ты носишь мою судьбу внутри себя.”
(You carry my fate inside you.)

And I swear… she smiled in her sleep.