10 Days to Surrender (Ozerov Bratva #2)

33. Ariel

33

ARIEL

The birthing center looks nothing like I imagined. No sterile white walls or harsh fluorescent lights—just warm terracotta and climbing vines, like someone’s nonna decided to turn her villa into a medical facility.

Which, according to the plaque by the door, is exactly what happened.

Sasha’s hand rests at the small of my back as we follow the receptionist down a sunlit hallway. The contrast between this and our last Lamaze “class” couldn’t be more stark. This place is conspicuously absent of Gina in a ridiculous wig pretending to be a New Age guru. There will be no exaggerated breathing exercises or jokes about chakra alignment.

Today feels like serious business.

The woman up front looks the part, too. She’s short and fierce, with steel-gray hair twisted into a severe bun. Her name tag reads Signora Rossi in precise handwriting. “ Benvenuti!” she cries as we approach. “You are the Ozerovs?”

I hesitate, but Sasha nods for both of us.

Signora Rossi beams. “ Perfetto! Come, come.” She ushers us into a room filled with birth balls and yoga mats. “First baby, si ?”

“First two, actually,” I say, patting my belly. “Twins.”

Her eyes light up. “ Gemelli! Double blessing. Then we have much to cover.”

The birthing class room fills up with other couples, all of them looking as apprehensive as I feel. The vinyl mat sticks to my thighs as Sasha and I lower ourselves between a pair of German tourists and a local couple holding hands. I’m already bracing myself for Sasha’s inevitable complaints about this whole thing being a waste of time.

But they never come.

Instead, he’s pulling out a small notebook, scribbling notes in his precise handwriting as Signora Rossi begins explaining different labor positions. When she demonstrates a particular breathing pattern, he actually raises his hand to ask a question about the timing.

His focus terrifies me more than any intentionally scary thing he’s ever done. This is the same intensity he uses for interrogations, for dismantling rivals. Now, it’s being directed at… memorizing pelvic tilt for optimal dilation?

I stare at him, wondering if he’s been replaced by some kind of parallel universe version of himself. This is nothing like the last time we did this. He looks… invested. Determined.

He looks like he fucking cares .

Signora Rossi begins explaining perineal massage. Sasha’s brow furrows as he raises his hand and asks, “How often should we practice this?”

I immediately choke on my water. “You cannot be serious.”

But he doesn’t blink or seem to notice that it’s an absurd question. His hand does reach out to find my thigh and rest there. Gentle. Reassuring. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

So what do I do?

I go along with it, duh. What else can I do besides that?

Even as things get more intense, all I can do is sit back and enjoy the ride. We’re supposed to be partners in mutual destruction, not… this. His calloused palm spans the stretch marks he kissed raw last night. He mouths Vydokh against my temple during the exhale drills— breathe out —like it’s a prayer.

The Italian couple beside us coo over his dedication. I want to scream that it’s a trick, a front, a facade. But when the instructor praises his form, Sasha’s touch caresses the nape of my neck—a fleeting, tender thing that smashes my resolve wide open.

During a break, I press my forehead to my knees. Just hormones , I lie to us both. Just biology . Just math.

His pen scratches on.

Signora Rossi claps her hands. “Now, partners—time to practice supporting through contractions. Andiamo! ”

Sasha’s already moving behind me, his thighs bracing behind mine as I sit on the stupid purple yoga mat. His palms slide up my sides, just shy of ticklish. The class fades—there’s just the mint-and-cedar scent of him, the warmth of his breath fanning over the back of my neck.

“Breathe, ptichka ,” he murmurs against my ear. His fingers dig into a knot I didn’t know I had, coaxing a moan from my throat that has the German tourists chuckling.

I elbow him, red-faced. “Less happy ending, more labor support.”

His chuckle vibrates through me. “You want textbook? I can do textbook.” His hands shift, palms cradling the curve of my belly as he leans us both forward into a closer semblance of the “comfort position” from Rossi’s diagram. “Better?”

No! Worse! Much worse! I’m a mess, inside and out, sexually, emotionally, orgasmically, karmically. This was all a very bad idea.

“Forty seconds,” Rossi calls. “Hold the pose!”

Sasha’s lips hover over my temple. “You’re doing good.”

The praise shouldn’t matter. We’ve fucked in dressing rooms, against printing presses, on forest floors—a million places more exposed than this.

So why do I feel like I’m melting into him?

“Time!” Rossi trills.

I scramble upright too fast, knees popping like mini fireworks. “Great. Nice work, team. Looks like we’re done.”

Sasha catches my elbow, steadying me. “Ariel?—”

“I’m great!” I blurt, though he didn’t ask. I yank free of him and gesture at the exit. “I do need some air, though. Or a Xanax. Either one.”

I stride out, but I don’t get far. In the hallway, I find the coziest looking patch of floor and sink to a seat, rehearsing breathing techniques until my heart stops palpitating.

My laugh comes out jagged and delirious. Of course. Of fucking course this would be the thing to finally soften him—not guns or gangs or my smart mouth, but the clinical horror of childbirth prep.

The classroom door creaks open. Sasha looms in the threshold, backlit by the birthing class’s salt lamp glow.

He arches a brow. He doesn’t really need to ask the question.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. “Just realizing I’d rather birth these kids in a Denny’s parking lot than spend one more minute?—”

His fingers curl around my wrists, gentle but firm. “Look at me, Ariel.”

The hallway spins. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Whatever this is,” he says quietly, “we’re in it together. For good.”

The words, too kind to be coming from a man like him, slip under my skin the way they always do. I want to claw them out. Or wrap myself in them. Can’t decide which.

“You don’t get to promise that.”

“Don’t I?” His palm settles over my belly as he kneels next to me. “They’re mine. You’re mine. That makes every fucking breath I take yours, too.”

I open my mouth—to laugh, to scream, to agree—but Rossi’s voice cuts through the tension.

“ Signori! Back to class, per favore! We practice breathing through nipple stimulation now!”

Sasha’s mouth twitches. “Still time for that Denny’s, if you want.”

I laugh and he helps me up. Together, hand in hand, we walk back in.

Somehow, the nipple stimulation is less invasive than it seemed. We make it through the rest of class mostly without incident. Sasha has filled pages of his notebook, but now, between scribbles, he looks over at me and flashes a reassuring smile.

It’d be easy to blame all my nerves on the biological Everest that’s waiting for me to climb it in four short weeks. Delivering one baby, much less two, is no joke. And to be sure, that’s definitely part of it.

But it’s also delivering his babies, in this place, under these circumstances. Thank God I have my mom and Jas here to hold my hands through it. And though I never thought I’d say it, thank God I have Sasha here, too.

After today, if my perineum needs massaging, he’ll know exactly what to do.

Signora Rossi thanks us all for coming and the other couples begin to shuffle out. I join the back of the pack, but Sasha says, “Wait here,” and goes to whisper with the teacher.

I frown when he passes a thick stack of euro bills to her. Rossi’s eyes widen, but she nods and hurries out after the rest of the students with a cryptic smile in my direction.

Sasha follows behind her and locks the door.

When he turns back to me, the predatory gleam in his eyes makes my breath catch. I back up until I bump into one of the birthing balls, steadying myself against it.

“More practicing?” I ask, aiming for sarcasm but my voice comes out breathy.

“I take my homework very seriously.” He stalks toward me with lethal grace. “Don’t you want to be prepared?”

My laugh is shaky. “I don’t think this was what Signora Rossi had in mind for the equipment.”

“No?” His hands find my hips, steadying me as I wobble on the ball. “I think we’re being good students.”

There’s something different about this. About us. The playfulness mixed with intensity, the way his hands cup my face… It terrifies me how right it feels.

“Sasha…” I whisper, not sure if I’m warning him or pleading.

His forehead presses against mine. “I know, Ariel. I know. But here’s the thing.” He draws in a tense, shuddering breath. “I came here for the babies. To learn how to keep them—and you—safe. We did that. But now, I need something in return.”

“What’s that?” I whisper.

“I need you. Because if I don’t put you on your back and make an absolute mess of your pussy right now, I think I might fucking die.”

Sir!

I let out an insane, giddy laugh. “This is the problem,” I whisper as heat leaches up to my face.

“What is?”

“That I don’t know how to say no when you say things like that to me.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. I’m not sure if it’s from the fear or the anticipation. Maybe both.

He pushes me back onto the ball, then raises my legs up against his chest, calves hooked over his shoulders. He presses a kiss to the inside of each ankle. Gentle, like a butterfly landing. Then, tucking two fingers inside the waistband of my leggings, he peels them down and tosses them aside without a care.

Sinking to his knees, he spreads my thighs wide and starts to nibble his way up from my knee. I go from nearly giggling with ticklishness to a breathy Oh when his mouth passes over my center.

His eyes stay absolutely fixated on me as he pulls the seat of my panties aside and presses one teasing kiss to my clit. He never blinks. Never looks away.

I’m exposed, vulnerable, and I fucking love it. I love the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing that matters in this world.

He leans down, his tongue finding my clit, and I gasp, my hands gripping his hair. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. “You’re so wet, Ari. So fucking wet for me.”

I moan, my hips bucking against his mouth. He’s right. I’m so fucking wet. I’m so fucking ready.

He licks slow rings around me. Every pass brings him closer and closer, gets me wetter and wetter, so that when he finally slides a finger inside me, it goes in without the tiniest bit of resistance. He crooks it up toward his face and I see stars.

His tongue descends on my clit. Two fingers. Three. The ball is squishy and wobbly beneath me as I buck and writhe while Sasha licks me to a drooling orgasm.

I’m still pinwheeling when he stands up, his cock hard and ready. He grabs a support rope and wraps it around my wrists, securing me to him like a leash.

I’m at his mercy now.

He bumps the ball back and forth so I bounce and flail around. I laugh, the sound coming out breathy and needy. He smiles, eyes dark. “You want more, Ari?”

I nod. He leans down, his cock rubbing against my entrance. I want to touch him so fucking badly, but he’s got my wrists bound with the rope.

“St-stop… teasing…”

“Who, me?” he asks innocently. His face goes dark as he starts to slowly drag the tip of his dick up and down my pussy. Never entering, just a taunt graze. “No, Ariel, I won’t stop teasing. I’m going to do this… and this… and this… until you’re dripping and pleading for me to finally go in. You can moan all you want, but it won’t make me go one second faster. In fact, that sound is music to my ears—so I might just go a little slower, and a little slower than that. You’ll be half-crazed by the time I’m done, won’t you? You’ll have eyes rolling back in your hand and you’ll bite your lip raw. And then I’m going to tease you one… more… time… That’ll be the one that breaks you. But it’s only then that I’ll finally slide into you, Ariel. It’s only when you’re truly about to lose your mind that I’ll give you everything you want.”

It’s like he’s casting a spell on me. Every sentence is underscored with that delicious, unbearable friction as he toys with my clit. I’m everything he swore I would be: dripping, pleading, needy, desperate. There’s no limit to the things I would do to have him all the way inside me.

I look up at him, tears filling my eyes. “Sasha… please.”

He smirks, hair falling over his forehead. He’s the devil I always thought he was. But he’s my devil now.

“I knew you were a good girl, Ariel. Show me just how good.”

Then he pushes inside me, filling me completely, and as always, that first stroke steals every last bit of my breath away.

I cry out. He muffles it with a heavy kiss.

He starts to move, his hips thrusting against mine. The rope chafes at my wrists, but I’m grateful for it, because it tethers me to reality, when everything else feels like it’s melting into oblivion. The ball rolls back and forth, squishing and rocking and squeaking, and I’m moaning, he’s panting, we’re fucking like this is the first time or the last time, I can’t tell which.

But then his smile fades. His eyes blacken. He leans down, his mouth finding mine again with more intent than ever before, as he says the only thing that could possibly bring me any higher than he’s already brought me:

“I love you, Ariel Ward. I fucking love you.”

I’d say it back if I could, but then he fucks into me so hard that it doesn’t matter what I say, because my body is saying it for me with every clench and squeeze and wordless moan.

I come.

He comes.

We both fall into each other, boundaries blurring, breath mingling, worlds colliding.

He helps me dress afterward, rolling my leggings back on and hiking them up over my swelling hips. His touch is gentle, littered with kisses everywhere—my neck, my shoulder blades, the curve of my spine.

I don’t return the favor—I’m too greedy for that, and watching Sasha dress is one of my guilty pleasures. So I just sit back and enjoy the show.

He drags his pants back up over his toned butt and fastens his belt. His abs disappear, one row at a time, as he hikes his shirt back on and buttons it. He’s always so precise about his appearance. Cuffs get rolled perfectly, hair smoothed down. As if anyone who sees us walking out of here won’t know exactly what we’ve been doing.

I let out a mournful sigh when his body is hidden from view again. It’s almost a shame that he’s not required to stand on a pedestal in a busy intersection all day long. People should get to look at him. He’s an international treasure.

On the other hand, I don’t mind that he’s all mine.

We’re almost out the door when he says, “Almost forgot this.” I stand and watch as he jogs back to retrieve the journal he filled with notes today.

“Gonna add to that now?” I tease. “‘ Ariel likes the three-fingers plus clit combo. Note for next time: consider optimal perineum involvement.’“

But instead of laughing or joking back, his face goes serious. “I want to be ready,” he says quietly. “To help you. When the time comes.”

That steals my breath more effectively than any of his kisses. In that moment, it’s so easy to glimpse the future stretching out before us: Sasha beside me in the delivery room, those strong hands that deal death so easily now cradling new life instead. A pair of glistening pink babies resting on his bare chest.

It’s too much. Too real. Too close to everything I’ve been trying not to want.

I look away first, focusing on retying my shoelaces. “Well, at least one of us was paying attention.”

Finally, the darkness passes and he grins at me. “We can always do some more homework back at the villa, if you missed something important.”

“They do say practice makes perfect…”

But even as we fall back into our familiar rhythm of banter, I feel the weight of his words settling into my bones.

When the time comes.

Not if.

When.