Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Coming to stand behind me, he presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m happy you love it.”
Turning around in his arms, I look up at the man I love more than life itself. And that’s saying a lot because I love my life.
I place my palms on his jaw, and lifting myself on my tiptoes, I kiss him with everything I feel for him, then I whisper by his ear, “I’m so going to fuck your brains out later.”
“I’ll hold you to that promise,” he chuckles.
We turn to our guests, and as we make our way down the aisle, applause and cheers fill the air.
We spend a perfect day with our loved ones before I get to go home with my husband so I can show him just how much he means to me.
Tomorrow we’ll leave for our short honeymoon in Ha Long Bay, situated in Vietnam, where I’ll spend my first week as Nikolai Vetrov’s wife – the one he chose for himself.
Epilogue
Nikolai
(Five years later…)
“Nikolai!” Abigail screams from inside the house, panic lacing her words.
I drop the ax next to the wood I was chopping and break out into a run. Pulling my gun from behind my back, I take the safety off and dart into the kitchen.
“Abigail!” I roar, ready to kill whatever’s threatening her.
“I’m in the den! Shit. Fuck.”
I rush inside to see my wife standing with a palette and a paintbrush in her hands while staring at her feet. Her eyes dart to me, then she frowns. “Put away the gun. My water broke.”
Christ.
I quickly shove my gun into the waistband of my pants. “I fucking thought you were being attacked.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she gasps, the palette and brush falling from her hands. She bends over at the waist, groaning painfully. “The baby is coming, and just like his father, he’s freaking impatient.”
Wrapping my arm around her, I help her to walk, but when she doubles over again, I sweep her up into my arms and carry her out of the house to where the helicopter is on standby.
I’ve made every possible arrangement well in advance. There’s even a packed bag for Abigail and our unborn son waiting on the aircraft.
“I can walk,” she says. “The contractions have passed.”
I set her down on her feet so I can pull my phone from my pocket and quickly call the doctor I have on speed dial.
“Yes, Mr. Vetrov?”
“Abigail’s water broke. We’re on our way.”
“Everything is ready,” he assures me before we hang up.
I dial Mom’s number, and as soon as she answers the phone, I say, “Abigail’s in labor. Meet us at the hospital.”
“Oh, my Godddd!” I hear Mom scream before I end the call.
“Run ahead and get the pilot to start the engine,” I order a guard who’s standing at his post.
“Remind me why the freaking helicopter isn’t right outside our house,” Abigail mutters as she clenches her jaw.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize, knowing not to argue with her right now. If she says the sky is pink, then the sky is fucking pink.
Finally, we make it to the helicopter, and I help Abigail to climb inside. I place a set of headphones over her head before I grab my own.
Two of my best guards also get into the helicopter, then the pilot asks, “Ready for take-off, Mr. Vetrov?”
“Yes,” I give the order. Grabbing Abigail’s hand, I give it a squeeze. “How are you holding up?”
She shoots me a glare. “How do you think I’m doing?” Her face contorts with pain, then she groans, “Jesus, Nikolai.”
“Breathe, moya lyubov'.” I check the time on my wristwatch to keep track of how far apart the contractions are.
“Don’t fucking tell me to breathe,” she snaps before she starts breathing like she’s been taught during our prenatal classes.
When the contractions pass, she slumps her head against my shoulder. I press a kiss to her hair, praising her, “You’re incredible, Abigail. I’m so fucking thankful for you.”
“I don’t feel incredible,” she complains.
The helicopter touches down on the hospital’s roof, where the doctor and nursing staff are waiting.
“I want all the painkillers,” my wife demands before I help her out of the aircraft.
When I have her sitting in a wheelchair, I say, “Whatever you want, baby.”
A nurse wheels Abigail into an elevator, and I quickly dart inside with our guards and the doctor right behind us.
“Do you know how far apart the contractions are?” Dr. Koskinen asks.
“Ten minutes. She’s only had two.”
We’re taken to a private room where everything is ready for our son’s birth.
“Stand guard by the door,” I order my two men.
“Yes, sir.”
Lifting Abigail from the wheelchair, I place her on the bed before pouring a glass of water for her.
“Here you go, baby,” I murmur, and while she takes a sip, I reach for the facecloth that’s soaking in icy water.
Wringing the cloth out, I pat over her forehead, which has her letting out a satisfied moan. “So good.”