He looks up. “Hey. How are you feeling?”
“Sore. Exhausted. Happy.” I push myself up slightly. “How long was I out?”
“Three hours. They brought the boys back about an hour ago. Both completely healthy.”
He looks down at them. “I couldn’t put them down.”
I understand completely. If I had the strength, I’d be holding them too.
“Which one is which?” I ask.
“This is Anton.” He indicates the baby in his left arm. “And this is Kirill. Anton has a birthmark on his left shoulder. That’s how we can tell them apart for now.”
I file that information away. I can’t wait to learn every detail about them. Every distinguishing feature.
Sergei stands carefully and transfers Kirill to my arms.
“Hi, baby,” I murmur. “Hi, Kirill.”
His eyes flutter open.
I can’t stop staring. Can’t stop memorizing every detail of his face.
Sergei settles back into the chair, still holding Anton. We sit like that for a long time, both of us just holding our sons. Not talking. Just being.
They won’t grow up the way we did.
44
Sergei
I’ve held weapons that weigh more than these babies. I’ve held dying men in my arms as they took their last breath. I’ve carried bodies. Pulled triggers without hesitation.
Nothing—absolutely fucking nothing—has prepared me for how small they are.
I look down at Anton in my arms. He’s barely five pounds. His entire hand wraps around one of my fingers. His grip is surprisingly strong for something so fragile.
I think about the night she was assaulted, her body broken and bruised. About Yuri and the Ghost and every single threat that almost took her from me.
She could have died so many times. These boys might never have existed.
The thought makes my chest tight.
“Can I?”
I look up to find Anton standing in the doorway. Not my son—my captain. The man Sofia trusts more than anyone, except me.
I hesitate. Every instinct I have screams at me not to let anyone else hold them. Mine to protect. Mine to keep safe.
But Sofia is watching me with that look that says I’m being ridiculous.
“Yes,” I force out.
Anton and I have come to an understanding. He loves her like a daughter. I respect his desire to keep her alive. That’s the only reason I allow it. She told me he’s the only man that has ever touched her with affection. Her father never hugged her. Anton was the one to hold her after Elena died. After the attack, only he was able to get close to her without inciting fear.
He takes baby Anton from my arms like he holds babies all the time.
“Hello, little one,” he says softly in Russian. “You have a good name. A strong name.”