Chapter 41
Mary
Iwake up to warmth.
Not the blanket kind. The human furnace kind.
Anton’s body is pressed against my back, one arm draped over my waist, hand splayed possessively across my stomach. His breath is steady against my neck. Slow. Even.
He’s still asleep.
I don’t move. Just lie here, eyes open, counting the slivers of morning light filtering through the blackout curtains he insisted on installing last week.
One month.
It’s been one month since I woke up in that clinic.
One month since I killed Timofey.
One month since I found out I was pregnant.
And one month since I stopped working at the bank.
Well, technically, I didn’t quit.
Brightside National’s entire Southwest division is under federal investigation now. Caleb’s arrest blew open everything—offshore accounts, shell companies, falsified transfers. Every branch that touched those ledgers got flagged, including mine.
Agents came in suits, carrying boxes. Sealed hard drives. Confiscated servers.
The bank froze every employee login “pending review.” My badge doesn’t even scan anymore. HR said it’s not termination; it’s “administrative leave.” But everyone knows that’s code for “we’re cleaning house and you’re next if we find anything.”
So here I am. Unemployed. Pregnant. Living in a penthouse guarded by men who don’t flinch at gunfire.
And somehow, I’m okay with it.
Better than okay.
I shift slightly, testing if I can move without waking him.
His arm tightens immediately. A low rumble vibrates through his chest—not quite a growl, more like a warning.
“Don’t even think about it,” he mutters, voice rough with sleep.
I smile into the pillow. “Think about what?”
“Getting up.”
“I’m hungry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m pretty sure I am. I’m eating for two now, remember?”
His hand slides lower on my stomach, fingers pressing gently. “I’ll have Lev bring something.”
“I don’t want Lev to bring something. I want to make pancakes.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re staying in this bed.”
I huff. “I’m pregnant, not dying. I can make breakfast.”
“Not arguing that.” His voice is still rough, still half-asleep. “But you’re not leaving this bed for at least another hour.”
“An hour? Anton, I’m starving.”
“Then starve quietly.”
I try to elbow him. He catches my arm before I can connect.
“Nice try,” he murmurs against my neck.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re staying put.”
I settle back against him. “Five more minutes.”
“Good girl.”
The praise sends a little thrill through me. Stupid. Ridiculous. But there it is.
His hand stays on my stomach. Protective. Possessive. Like he’s checking to make sure everything’s still where it should be.
Ten weeks now. Still too early to show. Still too early to feel anything. But he acts like I’m made of glass.
Except when he doesn’t.
I shift again—deliberately this time—pressing my ass back against him.
He goes still.
Very still.
Then I feel it. Hard. Thick. Pressed right against me through the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
Morning wood. Right on schedule.
“Mary.” His voice drops an octave. A warning.
“Mm?” I press back again. Just a little. “Something wrong?”
His grip on my stomach tightens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“Am I?”
“Dr. Vera said—”
“Dr. Vera said no sex.” I turn my head slightly, just enough to catch his eyes. Dark green. Dangerous. “She didn’t say no teasing.”
His jaw clenches. “You’re going to regret this.”
“Really?” I shift again, slow, deliberate. Grinding back just enough to make him groan.
“Fuck.” The word comes out rough, strangled.
I grin into the pillow. “Problem?”
“Yes.” His hand slides from my stomach to my hip, gripping hard. “You’re the problem.”
“Me? I’m just lying here.”
“You’re not just lying there.” He pulls me tighter against him, letting me feel exactly how hard he is. “You’re torturing me.”
“That’s a strong word.”
“It’s the right word.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Poor baby.”
“Poor baby?” He nips my shoulder. Not hard, but enough to make me gasp. “You think this is funny?”
“A little.”
His fingers trace lazy circles on my stomach, dipping lower, just brushing the edge of my panties. “Five minutes. Then I’ll make you forget about breakfast.”
Heat pools between my legs, my pussy clenching at the suggestion in his touch. “Promise?”
His hand slides lower, fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties, teasing the sensitive skin there.
“You doubting me, malyshka?”
I arch back against him, feeling his cock harden against my ass.
“No,” I whisper, voice breathy. “But show me anyway.”
His fingers dip lower, grazing my clit, and I gasp, hips rocking instinctively.
“Anton…”
“Shh.” His mouth is at my ear now. “If I can’t have you, you don’t get to torture me.”
I moan, low and needy, as his fingers slide through my folds, finding me already soaked.
“Fuck, Anton…”
“Language, malyshka,” he teases, but his voice is rough, his cock twitching against me. His finger circles my clit, slow, deliberate, making my breath hitch.
“Please,” I beg, grinding back against him, my hand reaching back to grip his thigh. “Don’t stop.”
He pinches my nipple, just hard enough to make me cry out.
Then… nothing.
His hand stills. His fingers stop moving.
I freeze, breath caught, waiting for him to continue.
Instead, he buries his face in my hair. Inhales deeply. Long. Like he’s memorizing me.
“Anton—”
“Shh.” His nose traces from my hair down to my neck. Another inhale, this one rougher. Hungrier. “Fuck, you smell good.”
His voice is wrecked. Raw.
My entire body tingles. Every nerve ending sparking to life under his attention. It’s not his hands or his mouth—it’s just him. Breathing me in like I’m oxygen.
Like he needs this.
His lips brush my shoulder. Not a kiss. Just contact. His breath hot against my skin.
“Anton,” I whisper, arching back. “Please.”
Nothing.
He just holds me. Face buried in my neck. Breathing. Existing.
I wait. Five seconds. Ten.
He still doesn’t move.
I turn my head, trying to see him. “Are you seriously stopping now?”
His mouth curves against my skin. “Yes.”
“But—”
“Two more weeks, malyshka. Doctor’s orders.”
I twist in his arms—carefully—and look up at him. Give him my best pout. Lower lip out. Eyes wide.
“That’s not fair.”
His eyes darken. Jaw clenches. “That look isn’t going to work.”
I push the pout further. “Please?”
“No.”
“Anton—”
“Nothing about this is fair.” His hand moves higher, palm brushing the underside of my breast. “I’ve got the most beautiful woman in my bed, pregnant with my child, and I can’t touch her the way I want to.”
My breath catches. “You’re touching me now.”
“Not enough.”
His thumb brushes my nipple. Just once. Just enough to make me arch.
“Anton—”
“Two more weeks.” His voice is dark, rough. “Dr. Vera said two more weeks until you‘re cleared.”
“Urg… I know.”
“Then you’ll stop teasing me.”
I look up at him. His hair’s a mess. Jaw shadowed with stubble. Eyes still heavy with sleep, but sharp. Focused on me.
God, he’s beautiful.
“I’m not promising anything,” I say.
His mouth curves. “Of course you’re not.”
I reach up, trace the scar on his shoulder. The one from Timofey’s bullet. It’s healed now, but the mark is still there. Raised. Red.
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.
“No.”
“Liar.”
His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against the scar. “It’s fine.”
I don’t believe him. But I don’t push.
Instead, I lean up and kiss it. Soft. Gentle.
He goes still under my mouth.
When I pull back, his eyes are darker. Hungrier.
“Mary—”
“I know.” I settle back against the pillow. “Two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” he repeats, taking a long, steady breath—like he’s trying to slow the storm building inside him. “Two weeks,” he says it again, quieter this time, almost to himself. Like if he says it enough times, he’ll believe it.
We lie there in silence. His hand back on my stomach. My hand on his chest.
Then he says, “I have to leave today.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
“Moscow. I’ll be gone two weeks.”
Two weeks.
I push up on my elbow, ignoring the way my head spins. “Two weeks? Why?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Igor found out.”
“Found out what?”
“That I’d been protecting you. That I killed for you. That you killed for me.” His jaw tightens. “That I chose you over the Bratva.”
My breath catches. “But you didn’t—”
“I did.” His hand covers mine on his chest. “The second I put you in our care. The second I told Dima to train you. Every choice I made was about keeping you alive.”
I sit up fully, shaking my head. “Don’t go.”
“Not an option.”
“Anton—”
He cuts me off with a look. That hard, silent one that makes everyone else back down. But I’m not everyone else anymore.
“You almost died,” I say. “You’re still healing. And now you’re walking into whatever this is?”
“I’m ending it,” he says. “Before he gets close.”
That possessive look flares in his eyes. Dark. Dangerous.
Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. “But… why?”
He doesn’t answer. Just exhales once, long and slow, then pulls me against him—tight, almost rough. Like holding me is the only way to keep himself together.
My cheek presses to his chest, skin against the hard line of muscle, and I can hear it—the sound steadies me for a second: one, two, one, two. His heartbeat is stubborn and alive.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and stripped bare.
“Igor saw it as betrayal.” The words come out flat, like a confession he’s said too many times in his head. “Timofey was his nephew. His blood. I’m just the soldier he dragged out of the dirt and built into something useful.”
His jaw flexes above me, the muscle ticking once.
“He made me what I am, but he never forgot where I came from. To him, I’ll always be the dog he trained—never the man who learned to bite back.”
The bitterness in his tone cuts. I push myself up so I can look at him properly.