“You mean?—”
“Yes.”
He sits up, completely awake now. “You’re in labor.”
“I can’t imagine what else this would be.” Another wave of pain rolls through me, slowly, hunching my body over. I brace both hands on the bed, breathing deeply. Konstantin watches, eyes wide and poised to do… what? The look of helplessness on his face makes me laugh breathlessly.
“Oh f—okay. Okay. Stay there.”
He bolts out of bed like it’s a hostage situation. Which, to be fair, might be the only other thing that would jolt him into this level of motion before dawn. I can’t help grinning as I watch himstumble into a pair of black pants, then hesitate like he’s trying to remember what clothes are.
“Konstantin,” I say gently, “I’m not going to give birth in the next five minutes. You have time to get dressed, grab the bag and everything.”
“You don’t know that. You said it’s time.”
“Well, it is. But early labor takes a while.”
He looks at me like I’ve just confessed I’m planning to climb Everest on a tricycle. He knows all these things, but in the moment they seemed to have escaped his mind.
I smile again. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look in pain.”
“I’m not. Yet. But we should probably go. Just in case. Oh—can you grab a snack? Just in case?” He gives me an incredulous look but tears out of the room in a way that makes me think he might just level the city trying to find me a croissant.
I waddle over to my cell phone, pull up Lev’s contact, and let him know. He’s technically off shift, but still in reach. Three little dots pop up, go away, pop up again… nothing yet.
Oh, how birth can bring these great men down. Eventually, Lev simply answers my text:Congratulations. Please tell the boss I will be at the hospital.
Who will get there first, I wonder, listening to Konstantin banging around.
The private OB team is being notified before I’ve even left the bedroom. My go-bag is grabbed. My coat slipped around my shoulders like I’m made of spun glass. There are several men positioned in the building, and the only one who isn’t panicking holds the door open for me on my way out. He’s older—Konstantin’s age, or near it, and gives me a kind smile. Must be a father, maybe even a grandfather.
In the grey dawn light, Konstantin beats his driver to the curb and looks ready to murder when the man takes too long toopen the door for me. I apologize, slip inside, and smile at my fiancé when he tumbles in through the other door.
It’s endearing, honestly. This is a man who’s faced down assassins and coup attempts with less panic than the idea of his girlfriend having a baby.
My heart swells.
He loves this child.
He lovesme.
And as ridiculous as it is, seeing him flustered—watching him shouting into his phone in Russian—is oddly comforting.
Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he’ll never let anything happen to us.
The hospital staff must’ve been warned.
We’re rushed through a private entrance by a nurse who’s clearly been threatened within an inch of her life to be cheerful. I’m wheeled into the VIP suite, tucked into a bed that could probably rival most luxury hotel mattresses, and handed a silky green gown with the Martynov crest stitched into the chest.
Thankfully, it’s a different room than the one I was in months ago. Only a shiver of anxiety goes through me; but my focus is mostly on the baby, who is clearly trying to press here and there to find the way out.
“Jesus,” I murmur as I change. “Is this what birth looks like when you’re a mafia princess?”
Konstantin, sitting straight-backed in the armchair like he’s preparing for war, doesn’t crack a smile. His jaw is locked tight. “Queen,” he corrects, then asks, “How far apart are the contractions?”
“About ten minutes. Maybe eight.”
