Page 181 of The Enemy Protector
“It’s perfect.” He shifts slightly, adjusting his hold on the babies. “Anton Sergeyovich Sokolov. And Kirill Sergeyovich Sokolov.” He leans into a thick Russian accent when he says their names.
The Russian way. Son of Sergei. It’s traditional, and it feels right.
“Can I hold them?” I ask.
The nurse helps Sergei transfer one baby to my arms. I look down at the tiny face, at the features that are somehow already so distinct. He has Sergei’s nose. My chin. A perfect blend of both of us.
“Hi, Anton,” I whisper. “I’m your mama.”
He makes a small sound, his face scrunching up. My heart swells so much it hurts.
Sergei is still holding Kirill, staring down at him like he can’t quite believe the baby is real. “I promise,” he says quietly in Russian, “I promise I’ll keep you safe. Both of you. No one will ever hurt you.”
I believe him.
He’ll protect them with everything he has.
And he has a lot.
“We did it,” I say, looking up at him.
“You did it.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. “You were incredible.”
“They’re going to have everything,” he says. “Everything we didn’t.”
I know what he means. Safety. Love. Parents who come home. A childhood that isn’t defined by violence and fear.
We can give them that. Together.
The nurse approaches again. “I need to take them for a few tests,” she says. “Just routine checks. We’ll bring them back in about an hour.”
I don’t want to let go. But I know they need to be examined.
Sergei and I hand over both babies reluctantly. I watch them being wheeled out of the room, my heart following them.
“They’ll be fine,” Sergei says, reading my mind. “Kirill will be with them.”
“You know the hospital hates us,” I say.
We showed up with eight guards. Anton and Nelson were ridiculous. They wouldn’t let the doctor in the room until I threatened they’d be delivering my babies. And that about sent Sergei into a fit.
“They’re being paid well,” Sergei says dismissively.
Now that the adrenaline is fading, the exhaustion is overwhelming. “I’m so tired.”
“Sleep.” He pulls the chair closer to the bed, his hand finding mine again. “I’ll stay right here.”
I don’t argue. I couldn’t if I wanted to.
My eyes drift closed. I’m asleep within seconds, his hand still holding mine.
When I wake up, the room is dim. Sergei is exactly where he was before, in the chair beside my bed. But now he’s holding both babies again, one in each arm. He’s talking to them quietly in Russian.
I don’t understand all the words, but I catch enough. He’s telling them about their grandmother Elena. About how brave she was. How much she would have loved them.
My heart breaks and heals at the same time.
“Hey,” I say softly.
