Maria
A sharp pain in my side causes me to wince as I gradually turn, tucked in a strange bed. A ray of sunlight sneaks past the tightly closed curtains, and I place my hand over my eyes to shield it. I’m not sure if I’m ready to wake up. My brain strains to figure out what’s happened and blames it on a nightmare. But it’s real because I feel like I’ve been rolling around in hell.
I don’t know where I am.
Panic tightens my body, which makes the pain worse, as my mind races through possibilities. I know I’m not in the penthouse or Holtsville. Did the brigadiers abduct me again?
I let out a low moan and close my eyes tight, wishing I could go back in time.
My eyes close again, and I wince as the pain stabs into my side, but I stop squirming when a strong hand rests on my shoulder.
I open my eyes and find Anton standing over me with an alarmed look on his face.
“How are you feeling?” His dark brows join together in a worried frown.
“Where am I?” I ask.
He smiles as if I’m being silly. “Where you belong.”
Pain stabs at my side again, and suddenly, the memory floods back. Mikhail. Zakhar. The sound of the gun going off.
“My baby!” I grab Anton’s hand, looking frantically at him.
Anton’s face brightens with a wide grin. “Your baby is okay. As are you.”
My chest rises and falls as I rest my hands on my stomach. My heartbeat slows down and relief floods through me. I’m okay. But most importantly, the baby is okay. I close my eyes, suddenly feeling very tired again.
That was too close …
But curiosity goads me to open my eyes and take in my surroundings. The bedroom is sparsely furnished, and all I can see is a small twin bed pushed against the wall. It’s so spartan that I wonder if I’m in a staff bedroom.
“Where is Mikhail?”
Anton looks quickly away. “He’s out, but he’s been with you every night since you’ve returned.” He gestures toward the small, unmade bed. “He’s watched over you.”
“And what about …” The last word catches in my throat as pain lances into my side, refusing to come to my lips.
Anton’s face shifts to something cold. “Mikhail Ivanov wants to talk to Zakhar first. Even after what he did to you.”He stands back and walks toward the door. “I’ve said too much already.”
“Anton.” I try to call out, but it’s painful to raise my voice. “Where am I?”
He ignores me and strides out into the hallway. I hear voices nearby, but I can’t understand the whispered words. Sighing, my head falls back against the pillow as I close my eyes. As the shushing whispers of Russian continue to echo in the hallway, I start listing all the things I plan to do when I’m well enough to get out of bed.
Learning Russian is going to be the first thing on the list.
“Maria?”Mikhail’s voice prods me gently, and I open my eyes when he steps into the room.
The corners of his mouth turn up gradually into a smile of relief when he sees that I’m awake.
“Where am I?” My voice cracks from anxiety and pain.
“Home.” His smile grows bigger as he approaches the bed.
“This doesn’t look like the penthouse,” I reply, still confused. “This isn’t my room.”
“You’re at the Ivanov family mansion.” Mikhail’s smile disappears behind a mask of control. “This is where every generation of Ivanovs is born and raised in this country. You’re in my old room. It would have been difficult to take you and the hospital bed up the spiral staircase in the penthouse.”
Shyly, I look around, pretending I’m not taking it all in. This room is plain compared to what I’ve come to expect from Mikhail. The walls are painted a pale gray that appears lavender where the sparse sunlight hits the walls. A few pieces of dark wood furniture occupy a corner, including a roll top desk and an old-fashioned desk chair.
“No paintings on the wall?” I ask quietly. “I didn’t expect your room to have no art.”
“In my father’s house, I wasn’t allowed to indulge in what I wanted.” Mikhail nods and picks up two photos off the desk. “Besides, I don’t need to look at art when I have these.”
He hands the photos to me, and his grin turns into a beaming smile when I gasp.
“Is that …?” I ask, staring at the two separate sonograms in my hand.
“Yes.” Mikhail leans toward me, our foreheads touching as he points to the black-and-white image printed on thin, glossy paper. “That’s our child.” He looks at me in a way that makes my feet wiggle. “Safe and sound.” He reaches for my other hand and touches it against his lips. “You should have told me, Maria.”
I pull my hand away. “You confuse me sometimes, Mikhail.” I take a deep breath, relieved that I am finally speaking the truth. “I don’t always know how you feel about me.”
My gaze stays on the photos in my hand as tears fill my eyes, but not from the pain. And though the image is very small, the relief balloons inside me, making me happier than I was before.
Safe and sound.
My hand floats down to my stomach. I’m suddenly filled with an urge to hug something soft close to me and never let go.
“I want to love you,” I whisper to Mikhail after a moment. “But I’m not sure if you want me to.”
Mikhail’s hand touches my cheek and then moves to my chin, lifting it up until his lips meet mine. His gentle touch makes me sigh against his mouth as he takes small kisses from me. I lift my hand and place it on his neck, pulling him closer and pressing my lips harder against his. I’m feeling reassured that I can finally fall in love.
I pull back and stare into Mikhail’s piercing gaze, waiting for him to tell me his feelings. I know it, but I want to hear him say it. Mikhail has said so many things, but can he tell me he loves me?
He keeps me waiting.