Epilogue
Nikolai
“Nikolai!” Abigail screams from inside the house, panic lacing her words.
I drop the ax next to the wood I was chopping and break out into a run. Pulling my gun from behind my back, I take the safety off and dart into the kitchen.
“Abigail!” I roar, ready to kill whatever’s threatening her. “I’m in the den! Shit. Fuck.”
I rush inside to see my wife standing with a palette and a paintbrush in her hands while staring at her feet. Her eyes dart to me, then she frowns. “Put away the gun. My water broke.”
Christ.
I quickly shove my gun into the waistband of my pants. “I fucking thought you were being attacked.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she gasps, the palette and brush falling from her hands. She bends over at the waist, groaning painfully. “The baby is coming, and just like his father, he’s freaking impatient.”
Wrapping my arm around her, I help her to walk, but when she doubles over again, I sweep her up into my arms and carry her out of the house to where the helicopter is on standby.
I’ve made every possible arrangement well in advance. There’s even a packed bag for Abigail and our unborn son waiting on the aircraft.
“I can walk,” she says. “The contractions have passed.”
I set her down on her feet so I can pull my phone from my pocket and quickly call the doctor I have on speed dial.
“Yes, Mr. Vetrov?”
“Abigail’s water broke. We’re on our way.”
“Everything is ready,” he assures me before we hang up.
I dial Mom’s number, and as soon as she answers the phone, I say, “Abigail’s in labor. Meet us at the hospital.”
“Oh, my Godddd!” I hear Mom scream before I end the call.
“Run ahead and get the pilot to start the engine,” I order a guard who’s standing at his post.
“Remind me why the freaking helicopter isn’t right outside our house,” Abigail mutters as she clenches her jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, knowing not to argue with her right now. If she says the sky is pink, then the sky is fucking pink.
Finally, we make it to the helicopter, and I help Abigail to climb inside.
I place a set of headphones over her head before I grab my own.
Two of my best guards also get into the helicopter, then the pilot asks, “Ready for take-off, Mr. Vetrov?”
“Yes,” I give the order. Grabbing Abigail’s hand, I give it a squeeze. “How are you holding up?”
She shoots me a glare. “How do you think I’m doing?” Her face contorts with pain, then she groans, “Jesus, Nikolai.”
“Breathe, moya lyubov’.” I check the time on my wristwatch to keep track of how far apart the contractions are.
“Don’t fucking tell me to breathe,” she snaps before she starts breathing like she’s been taught during our prenatal classes.
When the contractions pass, she slumps her head against my shoulder. I press a kiss to her hair, praising her, “You’re incredible, Abigail. I’m so fucking thankful for you.”
“I don’t feel incredible,” she complains.
The helicopter touches down on the hospital’s roof, where the doctor and nursing staff are waiting.
“I want all the painkillers,” my wife demands before I help her out of the aircraft.
When I have her sitting in a wheelchair, I say, “Whatever you want, baby.”
A nurse wheels Abigail into an elevator, and I quickly dart inside with our guards and the doctor right behind us.
“Do you know how far apart the contractions are?” Dr. Koskinen asks. “Ten minutes. She’s only had two.”
We’re taken to a private room where everything is ready for our son’s birth.
“Stand guard by the door,” I order my two men. “Yes, sir.”
Lifting Abigail from the wheelchair, I place her on the bed before pouring a glass of water for her.
“Here you go, baby,” I murmur, and while she takes a sip, I reach for the facecloth that’s soaking in icy water.
Wringing the cloth out, I pat over her forehead, which has her letting out a satisfied moan. “So good.”
Suddenly she hands me the bottle, then starts to breathe faster.
I notice the nurse timing the contraction while the doctor takes a seat at the foot of the bed. “Let’s have a look and see how far you’re dilated.”
My top lip curls as the nurse pushes Abigail’s dress back and helps her out of her underwear.
Every time this man is between my wife’s legs, I have to remind myself not to kill him.
When Dr. Koskinen is done checking, there’s a pleased smile on his face. “It’s almost time. We’re going to do a couple of practice pushes.”
Abigail nods, and my heart begins to beat faster.
The nurse shows me how to help Abigail into the right position, and then the doctor says, “Take a deep breath, then push as hard as you can for ten seconds.”
Abigail inhales as deeply as she can, then pushes until the count of ten.
When she slumps back, I grab the facecloth from the icy water again and wipe the sweat from her forehead. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“You better be,” she sasses me.
God, I love this woman.
“Push again, Mrs. Vetrov,” the doctor instructs.
My wife gives the push her all before slumping back again.
We continue with the pushes for twenty minutes when the doctor says, “It’s time.”
Christ.
Okay.
Fuck.
What do I do?
Abigail lets out an agonizing cry as she starts to push. “Breathe through the contraction,” the nurse tells her.
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” my wife screams, the expression on her face that of a ruthless queen. She grabs my hand in a death grip, then whimpers, “Nikolai.”
I press my forehead to her temple. “You’ve got this, Abigail. You’re so fucking strong. You’re going to be an amazing mother.” I praise her through her pain until she’s able to gasp for air.
The contraction comes again, and Abigail lets out a fucking war cry that gives me goosebumps. This time she doesn’t stop pushing, and with the doctor’s guidance, she gives birth to our firstborn son, who we’re naming after my father.
“You have a healthy baby boy,” Dr. Wells says while the nurse takes care of Damien.
She wraps a blanket around our newborn son before bringing him to us.
My fucking heart.
I watch as Abigail takes our son, cradling him against her breast.
Never in my life have I seen anything more beautiful than my wife and my son.
“Is my wife okay?” I ask. “Is my boy healthy?”
Dr. Koskinen chuckles. “They’re both in perfect health.”
Leaning over my precious family, I whisper, “My miracles. Christ, I love you both so fucking much my heart aches.”
Abigail gives me a teary smile, exhausted from the labor. “We have a son, Daddy. Look how perfect he is…” she pauses to clear her throat, emotion thick in her voice, “just like his father.”
Completely overcome with emotion, I press a kiss to her forehead. “Moya zhizn’. Moya dusha. Ty mayo vse.”
That’s what Abigail and our son will always be to me. My life. My soul. My everything.
The End.
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