Page 180 of The Enemy Protector
But there’s no time to process. The contractions haven’t stopped.
“Baby two is coming,” the doctor says. “Sofia, let’s do this again.”
“I can’t,” I sob.
“You can.” Sergei’s voice cuts through the fog of exhaustion. “One more time. Just one more.”
I scream, not caring who hears. It somehow lessens the pain.
“Almost there,” the doctor encourages. “One more push.”
I give it everything I have. Every last bit of strength.
Another cry fills the room.
I’m crying now. Full, ugly sobs that I can’t control. Two boys. Two perfect, healthy boys.
The room erupts into controlled chaos. Nurses moving around, cleaning the babies, checking vitals. I try to focus, try to see what’s happening, but I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.
I want to hold my babies. To see them. To make sure they’re really okay.
And then I see him.
Sergei is standing across the room. A nurse has placed both babies in his arms. One in each arm, both wrapped in blue blankets. He’s staring down at them with an expression I’ve never seen before.
He looks terrified. And completely, utterly undone.
His eyes are wet. His hands—those hands that have killed, that have broken bones and pulled triggers—are cradling our sons with infinite gentleness. Hands that saved me from the worst moment of my life.
There’s no going back. I will never be Sofia Baranova again.
“Sergei,” I whisper.
He looks up. Our eyes meet across the room.
A man who’s never been soft with anyone, being impossibly gentle with the two tiny lives in his arms.
“Come here,” I say. “Please.”
He crosses to the bed carefully, like he’s afraid of dropping them.
“They’re perfect,” he says, his voice rough. “They’re so fucking perfect, Sofia.”
I reach out and touch the closest one’s face. His skin is impossibly soft. His eyes are closed, but I can see the dark lashes against his cheeks.
“Which one is this?” I ask.
“Baby A,” the nurse says. “He came first. By eight minutes.”
“Do you have names picked out?” another nurse asks.
Sergei and I look at each other. We’ve discussed names, but we could never agree. We had a short list, but nothing felt right.
“Anton,” I say suddenly. “And Kirill.”
Sergei’s eyes widen slightly. Then something soft crosses his face. “Anton and Kirill,” he repeats.
“The next one can be Nelson,” I say with a soft smile.
