Sasha's POV:
It had been a week since I woke up from my coma. The monitor beeped in sync with my heartbeat as my mother fed me hot congee. My brother, just thirteen, stood beside my grandmother, staring at the wall; his usual charming personality nowhere to be found.
Unlike my childlike body, my adult mind could recognize the telltale signs of guilt and trauma. He had been the one who sneaked me out to the mall to get the newest charm doll after I had begged him for weeks. I had wandered off, following a man dressed as Stitch, who had convinced me to go with him to meet Lilo.
In hindsight, the naivety of my younger self astounded me. In my past life, I had been forced to work for human tr*ffickers by the time I was six, luring innocent children into their network. Life had been brutal, with moldy bread as the best treat I could earn.
I snapped back from the memory as my mother held the next spoon-surely cooked by our chef, who had once worked in a three-star Michelin restaurant-slowly in front of my mouth, swallowing it as I kept my gaze locked on my brother from the hospital bed. Nurses came and went, checking my vitals and taking blood samples, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from him.
I looked up at my mother, her brown eyes still watery with emotion, as she blew on the next spoonful of congee, looking utterly exhausted. I had never seen my mother like this before. She had always been the strongest woman in the world, someone who never cried, even when she had been sold off to my father for an alliance. My chest squeezed as I gently raised my hand to her face, my muscles screaming in pain with every inch I lifted it, and held her left cheek in my hand.
"Don't be sad, mama," I said in Russian, staring into her eyes.
"I'm not sad, my child," she replied, not meeting my eyes, her voice shaking slightly with emotion. "I'm just very happy to see you eating so well. Now, this is the last spoon... Open up."
-----
Time flew by, filled with doctors, nurses, and multiple check-ups and medicines. My mother refused to leave my side, which made my father force her to get some sleep on the cot he had arranged just for her, right beside my bed.
He checked in at least thrice a day, making sure everything was okay. He kissed my forehead every time before he left for work and brought me fresh bouquets and stuffed toys with every visit.
But the biggest surprise of all was my grandmother.
Irina Volkov was the farthest thing from soft. Born to one of the biggest politicians in the USSR, she had been trained from childhood to be prim and proper, molded to aid her father, then her husband, in ruling their kingdoms.
So it was mind-blowing to see her take care of her daughter-in-law-taking turns with her in looking after me and gently scolding her when she tried to overwork herself.
Her wrinkled hands patted me to sleep every night, telling me old Russian folk tales she had heard when she was a kid, as I drifted off.
But the most worrying thing was Nikolai, my brother. A few days after I'd last seen him, I had woken up from my afternoon nap, just to end up eavesdropping on a conversation between Mama and Babushka.
"He is rushing into this. He's too young," Mama said.
"He knows what he is doing. This is his way of repenting for taking Sasha out," Babushka replied.
"He's already thirteen. Dmitri had already taken his first life by that age."
"But he's not Dmitri, Mama. He feels too much. If he tries to force all his emotions inside, he might end up being emotionally cut off from us forever."
"The Volkov men are forged from trials. As long as the Volkov blood flows through him, he shall come out of this, one way or another. Whether that is victorious or not depends on him."
"He's old enough to start taking on his own responsibilities, doch. Our duty is to support him on his journey." Babushka ended the conversation, turning to go to the washroom.
My heart hammered inside my chest as I realized what my brother had done. Guilt and panic set in as I hid my face under the blanket, trying to think of how to handle this situation.
As I racked my brain, something kept nagging at me. This strange sense of déjà vu, as if I had already lived through this moment from a different position, engulfed me. The air in my lungs turned sharp, my stomach twisted, and a cold shiver ran down my spine.
That's when it hit me.
Nikolai Volkov - the male lead who rules over the Bratva, the morally grey hero of the third book from the dark romance series, Blood and Roses, and the man who lost all his emotions when he caused his sister's death.
Fuck, I'm so screwed!