Chapter 12 The Bomb
Chapter twelve
The Bombshell
Mariana
The private gym in Alexei's estate is nicer than any police precinct facility I've ever used. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens, equipment that probably costs more than my former annual salary, and blessed silence at six in the morning.
We've been here for a few days. We keep working, we keep researching, and the rest of the time is Mikhail bonding with the kids and Mila, allowing himself to experience being part of a family and a normal family routine.
I'm happy for him, for them, but witnessing this isn't doing my muddled mind any favors.
That's why I come here. I need this. Need the burn in my muscles, the sweat, the mindless repetition of movement.
Need something to stop me from thinking about how Mikhail looks holding baby Anya, or how his arm feels around me all night, or how I woke up every morning wrapped around him like a vine.
Focus on the workout, not on feelings you can't afford.
I push through another set of burpees, my body responding with the muscle memory of years of training. This is familiar. This makes sense. Unlike everything else in my life right now.
The gym door opens, and Mikhail walks in wearing workout pants and nothing else.
Jesus Christ.
I've seen him shirtless before, but with the morning light through the windows it hits different. Every scar tells a story. Every line of muscle speaks to years of discipline. The man is forty-two and built like someone half his age, all controlled power and dangerous grace.
"You are here again." he says, grabbing a towel.
"Needed to move." I drop into a plank, holding it while trying not to watch him stretch. Failing miserably. "Helps me think."
"What are you thinking about?"
You. All the fucking time. You and how I'm in so deep with you I might drown.
"Harrison," I lie. "In how to articulate and use everything we have against him so far."
He moves to the weight rack, and I definitely don't watch the way his back muscles flex. "Alexei's contacts in Moscow confirmed three more names. Russian wives who disappeared from US protection."
"That's good. More evidence."
"Mariana."
"What?"
"You're shaking."
I look down at my arms. He's right—they're trembling. Weird. I've held planks for way longer than this.
"Just tired," I say, pushing up to standing.
The room tilts sideways.
What the—
My vision goes fuzzy at the edges, like someone's dimming the lights. My knees feel weird, loose, like they forgot how to work.
"Mariana?" Mikhail's voice sounds far away.
The last thing I see is him dropping the weights, moving toward me with that inhuman speed he has. Then the floor rushes up to meet me, and everything goes black.
I wake up to voices arguing in Russian.
Even without understanding the words, I recognize Mikhail's tone—deadly calm, the kind that means someone's about to die. Alexei responds, equally controlled but firm.
"English," I croak. "Some of us don't speak Russian."
Mikhail's suddenly there, his hand covering mine. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck." I try to sit up, realize I'm on some kind of medical table. The room is sterile, all white walls and medical equipment. Not a hospital though—too small, too private. "Where are we?"
"Dr. Volkov's clinic," Alexei says. "He handles things that can't go through official channels."
Right. Underground doctor for criminals and fugitives. Perfect.
"What happened?"
"You collapsed." Mikhail's jaw is tight, that muscle jumping like it does when he's stressed. "Just dropped in the middle of the gym. You've been out for twenty minutes."
"I'm fine. Just overdid it—"
"I wouldn't say you’re fine." A new voice, accented and professional. The doctor, presumably. He's older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Ms. Castillo, when was your last menstrual cycle?"
Heat floods my face. "I—what? Why does that matter?"
"Please. It's relevant."
I try to remember, and my stomach drops. "I don’t know… I’m not sure."
"And have you been sexually active recently?"
I can't look at Mikhail. Can't look at anyone. "...Yes."
"I see." The doctor pulls up a stool, holding a paper with lab results. "Your blood work shows elevated hCG levels. Surprisingly elevated for such an early stage."
"What does that mean?" But even as I ask, I know. Some part of me already knows.
"You're pregnant, Ms. Castillo. It's still very early—no more than a couple of weeks based on implantation, though the hCG is unusually high. Sometimes we see this with particularly viable pregnancies or multiples."
The world stops.
Pregnant.
"Why did I collapse?"
"Exhaustion, primarily. You've been running on adrenaline, insufficient sleep, extreme stress. Your body simply shut down to protect itself. The pregnancy is incidental—you would have collapsed regardless."
"Multiples?" Mikhail's voice comes out strangled.
"Too early to tell. But the levels are quite robust for such an early pregnancy." The doctor smiles kindly. "Whatever the case, you're definitely pregnant. Congratulations."
Mikhail reaches over and takes the paper from the doctor's hand, staring at it like it's the Holy Grail.
"This is..." His other hand moves to my stomach, spanning it possessively. "My child. Our child."
"Mikhail—"
"You're carrying my baby." His voice has gone rough with emotion.
"It's been just a couple of weeks!"
"Days, weeks, doesn't matter." He's folding the blood test results carefully, tucking them into his wallet like they're made of gold. "My woman. My baby. Both mine. My own family."
"You can't put blood test results in your wallet!"
"Watch me." He pats his wallet with satisfaction. "I'm going to look at this whenever I need to remember everything I'm fighting for."
Alexei clears his throat. "Perhaps we should give them a moment, Doctor."
They leave, and suddenly it's just us in this sterile room with life-changing news between us.
"You're taking this very well," I say carefully.
"Well?" He laughs, but it sounds slightly unhinged. "Mariana, you just gave me everything I never thought I could have."
"It's a bundle of cells! It's been barely weeks, a couple of days!"
"It's ours." He cups my face in his hands. "Do you understand what this means? You and me, we created life. In the middle of all this mess, we made something perfect."
"We don't even know if it'll stick. It's so early—"
"It'll stick." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "You're strong, I'm stubborn, this baby's going to be unstoppable."
"You're insane."
"I'm happy." He kisses me, soft and reverent. "I'm terrified and overwhelmed and completely in love with you and our weeks-old bundle of cells."
Despite everything, I laugh. "This is not how I pictured finding out I was pregnant."
"How did you picture it?"
"I don't know. Married, stable job, maybe a house with a yard. Not as a fugitive in an underground clinic and with a criminal as my baby’s father, that’s for sure."
"Former criminal. Current father-to-be." His hand is back on my stomach, like he can't stop touching. "Marry me."
"What?"
"Marry me. Today. Tomorrow. As soon as Alexei can arrange it."
"Mikhail, we've known each other for a few weeks—"
"I've known you for two years. I've loved you for at least one. And now you're carrying our child." His eyes are intense, burning with certainty. "Marry me."
"I—"
The door bursts open, and Mila rushes in, eyes bright with excitement. "I heard! Oh my God, you're pregnant! Uncle Misha's going to be a father!"
"How did you—"
"Alexei texted me." She's practically bouncing. "This is perfect! The babies will have a cousin! We can be pregnant together!—Well, I'm not pregnant right now, but I could be! Alexei!"
"Technically you'll be the one with a new cousin," Mikhail says, amused.
"Details! It's still family! A baby Ghost!"
"Mila," Mikhail says. "Breathe."
"You breathe! You're having a baby!" She hugs me, then him, then me again. "Have you told her mother? Oh God, we need to shop. Baby clothes, cribs, those tiny socks that make everyone cry—"
"Mila, it's been a couple of days," I protest.
"So? That baby's already Bratva royalty. Heir to the Ghost legacy. We need to start planning immediately."
"The Ghost legacy?"
"Well, yeah." She grins. "What did you think would happen when you got knocked up by the most dangerous man in New York? That kid's going to be legendary."
I look at Mikhail, who's still staring at me with that possessive awe, his hand still on my stomach like he's claiming territory.
"This is insane," I mutter.
"Welcome to the family," Mila says cheerfully. "We specialize in the insane."
The ride back to Mikhail's house is tense. He keeps looking at me like I might evaporate, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. I stare out the window, trying to process how my life just imploded in a whole new way.
Pregnant. With Mikhail Kozlov's baby. The Ghost's child growing inside me.
What the fuck am I going to do?
"Stop overthinking," he says quietly.
"How can you tell?"
"You're biting your lip. You only do that when you're spiraling."
Right. He's mentioned this before. The fact that he's been cataloging my habits, learning my tells, should probably concern me. Instead, it just makes my chest tight with something warm.
"My career is over," I say finally. "Even if we clear my name, even if Harrison goes down—I'm pregnant with a criminal's baby. No agency will ever trust me again."
"Former criminal."
"That distinction won't matter to the FBI."
"Then fuck the FBI."
"Easy for you to say. You've already built your life outside the system. I've spent my entire adult life serving it. Being an agent isn't just what I do—it's who I am."
"Was," he corrects. "Now you're going to be a mother."
The words hit like ice water. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't reduce me to just that. I'm more than just a vessel for your baby."
His hand tightens on my thigh. "I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you found out I'm pregnant and immediately went full caveman. 'My woman, my baby, mine.' Like I'm property."
"You're carrying my child—"
"I'm carrying a bundle of cells that might become a child. And that doesn't mean you own me."
He pulls into the underground garage of his building with more force than necessary. We don't speak in the elevator. The tension is suffocating, electric, dangerous.
The moment we're inside his house, I explode.
"I can't do this."
"Do what?"
"Sit on the sidelines while you handle everything. Be the protected little woman carrying your heir while you fight Harrison and clear our names."
"You're pregnant—"
"I'm barely pregnant! I'm not an invalid!"
"You collapsed this morning!"
"From exhaustion, not pregnancy! The doctor said so!"
"And what happens next time? When Harrison's men come for you? When bullets start flying?" He's in my space now, backing me against the kitchen island. "What happens when I have to choose between stopping Harrison and protecting you?"
"You don't have to protect me!"
"Yes, I do!" The words come out raw, desperate. "Don't you understand? You're everything. You and that baby are the only things that matter now."
"That's not fair—"
"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Nothing about this is fair. It's not fair that I've loved you for two years without being able to touch you.
It's not fair that we finally found each other in the middle of this chaos and now you're pregnant when we're being hunted by the federal government. "
"Then let me help! Let me fight!"
"No."
"You don't get to tell me no!"
"I just did."
"Fuck you."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that makes me shiver. "You'd like me to fuck the fight right out of you."
"That's not—"
He kisses me hard, swallowing my protest. It's nothing like last night's tenderness. This is claiming, possessive, overwhelming. His hands are everywhere—my hair, my throat, my hips—pulling me against him like he's trying to merge us into one person.
"Stop," I gasp when he lets me breathe.
He freezes immediately, but doesn't step back. "You don't mean that."
He's right. I don't. My body is already responding, already aching for his touch despite my anger. Maybe because of it.
"I hate you," I lie.
"No, you don't." He spins me around, pressing my back against his chest. We're facing the windows, our images reflected back at us. "Look at yourself."
I see what he sees—my flushed face, dilated pupils, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.
"You're already mine," he murmurs against my ear. "Your body knows it even if your mind won't accept it."
"I belong to no one."
"Liar." His hand slides down to my stomach, possessive and gentle at once. "You belong to me. Have since the moment I pulled you from that fire."
"Mikhail—"
"Watch." He turns us slightly so we're facing the mirror by the entrance. "Watch what you do to me. Watch what I do to you."
His hands are methodical, removing my clothes with careful efficiency despite the hunger I can feel vibrating through him. When I'm naked except for my underwear, he stops.
"Look at yourself," he commands. "Beautiful. Strong. Mine."
"I'm not—"
He bites the junction of my neck and shoulder, hard enough to mark. I gasp, my knees going weak.
"That's going to bruise," I protest.
"Good. I want everyone to see. Want them to know you're claimed."
"I have to hide it—"
"From who? Your nonexistent job?" His hand cups me through my underwear, finding me embarrassingly wet. "Your body's more honest than your mouth, little wolf."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
I try to turn, to take control, but he holds me in place. Makes me watch as he plays my body like an instrument he's been studying for years.
"Tell me you're mine," he demands, his fingers doing things that should be illegal.
"No."
"Tell me." He adds another finger, and my vision goes white at the edges.
"I—fuck—I can't—"
"Tell me you're mine and I'll let you come."
"That's not fair—"
"Nothing about this is fair." He slows his movements, keeping me right on the edge. "Say it."
"I belong to no one," I manage through gritted teeth.
"Liar. Your body knows who owns it." He proves his point by doing something with his thumb that makes me see stars. "Say it, Mariana. Three words."
"I hate you."
"Those aren't the words." He stops completely, and I actually whimper. "Say it."
My pride battles with my need, and it loses.
"I'm yours," I gasp.
"Again."
"I'm yours."
"Whose baby are you carrying?"
"Yours."
"Who do you belong to?"
"You. Fuck, Mikhail, you!"
He rewards me by finally, finally letting me shatter. I come apart in his arms, watching myself fall to pieces in the mirror while he holds me up, holds me together.
"Mine," he says against my neck, sounding wrecked. "My woman. My baby. My everything."
This time, I don't argue.
Because maybe, just maybe, he's right.