Page 151 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"Kiryan." From the bed, she reached for me.

I took her hand. "I'm here."

She wore the gown, pale as hell, freckles sharper than usual.

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Do I look like a mess?"

"No." I brushed her sweat-damp hair back behind her ear.

She grabbed my tie and yanked me down. "Say something useful."

"I love you."

Her breath caught. "That's useful."

I kissed her. Just a few seconds. Then she pressed her forehead to mine. "Don't go."

"I stay right here."

Labor dragged on forever. Time got chopped into pieces by pain. She damn near crushed my bones in her grip. All I could do was hold her and keep saying I was here. I was here. I was here.

"I can't do it." After a brutal contraction, she shook her head, tears sliding into her hairline. "Kiryan, I can't do it."

My lungs felt like they tore.

She forced her eyes open, teeth bared, spent every last scrap she had.

A thin, sharp cry cut through the room.

Everything went quiet. Even my heart missed a beat.

A nurse lifted a red-faced newborn, fists clenched, voice loud as hell.

"Healthy baby girl."

I forgot how to breathe.

My daughter.

"Kiryan." Elena's voice barely carried.

I snapped back and kissed her sweaty forehead. "You did it."

"We did it."

They laid the baby on her chest. The crying faded into a small, needy whimper. Elena stared down, hazel eyes drowning. "Tanya."

We'd picked the name together. I'd thought it was too soft. Now it hit harder than any order I'd ever given.

"Tanya Morozov."

Like she heard it, our daughter scrunched her face and made a little sound.

"Hold her," Elena said.

My spine locked. "I'll hurt her."