Page 115 of Hush, Little Baby

“Now, I heard it was your birthday a few days ago…” Nikolaus’s mother goes into a monologue and starts fussing with my pillows as the doctor reenters with an IV stand and supplies.

Cool antiseptic wipes kiss my skin, then the sharp prick of the needle. Soon, a slow drip of fluids, antibiotics, and pain medication flows into my vein.

Relief does not wash over me all at once—the sharpest edges of agony dull, melting from white-hot fire to a manageable ache. The bedroom itself starts to soften. The doctor murmurs healing timelines; Nikolaus’s mother frets softly about blankets and pillows and keeping me comfortable. But my gaze never leaves the hand clutched in mine. Nikolaus never lets go. His thumb brushes over my skin again and again—a gentle promise, the last thing I feel before sleep sweeps me away once more.

24

Nikolaus

I have never been particularly good at waiting.

Three days have passed since Charlie’s rescue, though they stretch out like a slow-burning agony, each hour a fresh reminder of the violence he endured.

Charlie has been sleeping a lot these past few days, drifting beneath the haze of painkillers, antibiotics, and sheer exhaustion. His breathing is often shallow and uneven, a fragile rhythm I track as though my very life depends on it. Every hour, I rise from the armchair I’ve been keeping vigil in and place my palm against his chest to feel his heart beating and lungs working. Only when I’m certain he’s alive can I return to my station.

His skin is now a map of his suffering—bruises blooming violet and ink-black against pale flesh, each one a word in an unspoken indictment of Constantine. The puffiness around Charlie’s jaw and cheeks has eased, revealing the discoloration from his nose being broken, the thin scabs along his temples, and the raw vulnerability that no medicine can erase. Every mark on his body steels my hatred for the men who did this.

My mother has noticed my sleepless obsession. This afternoon, she appears in the bedroom doorway, arms balancing a silver tray heaped with a steaming bowl of soup, fruit, toast, and a pot of chamomile tea, sending curls of vapor into the air.

“He’s going to be alright,” she says, meeting my eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mother.”

She snorts, then crosses the room to set the tray on the bedside table. Charlie shifts beneath the tangle of blankets, one small hand slipping from the covers. My mother’s frown lines soften immediately.

“Oh, look at him,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. He sighs in his sleep, and she melts. “He’s so precious. Ugh, I can’t wait to get him in a wedding suit. He’ll be so handsome.”

I groan softly.

If one thing has become clear in the past few days, it’s that my mother has fallen in love with my boy. I’m convinced that she already loves him more than she loves me, and that’s with him being mostly unconscious. Once he heals, she’s going to be glued to his side, obsessed with him.

“I should have met him the moment you brought him home,” she frets.

“I needed privacy to settle him in,” I reply, voice flat. She should understand—I’ve inherited her appetite for discretion. And obsession, quite obviously.

“Privacy?” She laughs, an indulgent sound. “Nikolaus, I gave birth to you.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Watch your mouth.” Despite myself, I grin, and she catches it immediately. “In all seriousness,” she says, lowering her voice. “You need sleep, my son.”

“I’m not leaving him alone,” I grunt.

“If you don’t rest, you’re going to get sick.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She clicks her tongue. “What are you so scared of?”

I turn away, heart pounding from the memory I can never erase—I was across from Artem Bogdanov, the young Russian boss Constantine had talked me into meeting, when my phone chirped.

Thinking it was Charlie messaging that he’d finished with his testing, or even Constantine updating me that he’d gotten Charlie home safe, I took my phone from my pocket and checked it.

What I saw will forever haunt me.

A single picture from an unknown number—Charlie covered in tape, bloodied, bruised, and swollen.

Bogdanov had leaned back, fingers steepled. “As you can see,” he said, smiling, “I have your attention.”