The hospital was white.
White walls. White lights. White sheets.
Sara sat in a hard plastic chair, staring at Adrian's pale face. Machines beeped around him. Tubes and wires connected him to life.
He hadn't woken up in three days.
The doctors said he would. Probably. Maybe. They used words like critical and stable and wait and see.
Sara hated all of them.
Marta appeared in the doorway. She looked older now, more tired. The attack on the mansion had changed everyone.
"Mrs. Volkov. You need to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to sleep."
"I'm not tired."
Marta crossed the room and sat beside her. For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she spoke, her voice soft.
"I've worked for Mr. Volkov for fifteen years. I've seen him wounded before. I've seen him near death before." She paused. "I've never seen him fight to come back the way he's fighting now."
Sara looked at her.
"He took a bullet for my father," she whispered. "In the warehouse. He was already bleeding and he still... he still fought. He still protected everyone."
Marta nodded slowly. "That's who he is. The world sees the mafia king. But those of us who know him... we see the man who would die for the people he loves."
Sara's eyes filled with tears. "What if he dies, Marta? What if he never wakes up?"
Marta took her hand.
"Then you survive. You take care of your brother. You live the life he wanted you to have." She squeezed gently. "But I don't think he's going to die. I think he's going to wake up and find you here, and he's going to be insufferably smug about it."
Sara laughed despite herself. It was a broken sound, but it was something.
"I love him," she said. "I didn't plan to. I didn't want to. But I do."
Marta smiled—a real smile, warm and sad.
"I know, child. We all know."
That night, Sara fell asleep in the hospital chair.
She dreamed of the warehouse. Of guns and blood and men falling. Of Adrian's arms around her, keeping her safe.
She woke to a hand in her hair.
Gentle. Warm. Familiar.
Her eyes flew open.
Adrian was looking at her. His face was pale, exhausted, weak. But his eyes—those dark, beautiful eyes—were open.
And he was smiling.
"Told you," he whispered, his voice rough. "I'd come back."
Sara burst into tears.
"You idiot," she sobbed, clutching his hand. "You absolute idiot. Don't you ever—don't you dare—"
"Shh." He squeezed her hand weakly. "Too loud. Head hurts."
Sara laughed and cried at the same time. She leaned down and pressed her lips to his forehead, his cheeks, his mouth.
"I love you," she whispered against his lips. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
Adrian's eyes held hers. "Good. Terror keeps you alive."
Sara laughed again.
"You're impossible."
"Impossibly handsome."
"Impossibly arrogant."
"Impossibly in love with you."
Sara's heart swelled until she thought it might burst.
"Welcome back," she whispered.
Adrian smiled—that real smile, the one only she got to see.
"Good to be back."
Three weeks later, Adrian came home.
The mansion was being rebuilt. Workers moved through halls, repairing damage, erasing evidence of the attack. But Adrian's room was untouched—Marta had seen to that.
Sara helped him into bed, fussing over pillows and blankets until he caught her hand.
"Stop."
"You need to rest."
"I need my wife to stop treating me like glass." He pulled her down beside him. "Stay."
Sara hesitated. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." He wrapped his arms around her carefully. "Just... stay."
She stayed.
For a long time, they lay in silence, wrapped in each other.
Then Adrian spoke.
"Dimitri's gone. For now. But he'll be back."
Sara nodded against his chest. "I know."
"When he comes back, it'll be worse. He'll have learned from this. He'll be smarter. More dangerous."
"I know."
Adrian was quiet for a moment.
"I should send you away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere he can't find you."
Sara lifted her head and looked at him.
"But you won't."
Adrian's jaw tightened. "No. I won't. Because I'm selfish. Because I can't breathe without you. Because—"
Sara kissed him.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said when she pulled back. "I chose you, Adrian Volkov. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. Remember?"
Adrian stared at her.
"I don't deserve you."
"Probably not." She smiled. "But you're stuck with me anyway."
Adrian laughed—a real laugh, warm and surprised.
"God help me."
"God help us both."
They held each other as the sun set outside their window.
Somewhere in the city, Dimitri was waiting.
But tonight, none of that mattered.
Tonight, they had each other.
And that was enough.
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