Chapter 13 His to Claim
Chapter thirteen
His to Claim
Mariana
I wake up sore in places I forgot could be sore.
The bite mark on my neck throbs with every heartbeat, a constant reminder of last night's claiming. I touch it gingerly, feeling the raised edges where his teeth broke skin. It's going to be purple for days. Maybe weeks.
Bastard did it on purpose.
Mikhail's side of the bed is empty but still warm. Through the open bathroom door, I can hear the shower running and him humming something in Russian. He sounds... happy. Content. Like he didn't just mark me up like some kind of territorial animal.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Unknown number.
Mariana - Need to discuss immunity deal. Harrison moving against more witnesses. - Alexei
Reality crashes back. We're still fugitives. Harrison's still free out there. And now I'm pregnant with a baby that's going to complicate everything.
The shower turns off. Mikhail emerges with a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest. He looks like a magazine ad for expensive cologne or danger or really bad decisions.
"Morning, little wolf." His eyes go straight to my neck, and satisfaction flashes across his face. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Pissed. Confused." I sit up, pulling the sheet around me even though modesty between us is pointless now.
"That's all you have to say? Yes?" He crosses to the bed, sitting on the edge. "Would you prefer I apologize?"
"Yes!"
"No." He reaches out, fingers ghosting over the bite mark. "I'm not sorry. I want everyone to see. Want them to know you're taken."
"By who? We can't exactly walk into the FBI and announce I'm with you."
"We'll figure it out."
"That's not a plan!"
"Mariana." He cups my face, thumb stroking my cheekbone. "You're carrying my child. You think I'm going to let anything happen to either of you?"
"Let?" I pull away. "There's that word again. Like you control what I do."
"I control what happens to what's mine."
"I'm not yours—"
"You said you were. Last night. Multiple times, if I recall correctly."
Heat floods my face. "That was... I was... you were doing things with your fingers!"
"I can do them again if you need reminding."
"This is serious!"
"I'm being very serious." He leans closer, and I catch his scent—soap and that exotic cologne. "You're mine, Mariana. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's my mother calling.
Shit.
"I need to take this."
Mikhail nods, but doesn't move. I answer anyway.
"Mamá?"
"Mija! Thank God. I've been so worried. The news, they're saying terrible things—"
We switch to Spanish—the language that always makes me feel closer to home, safer somehow.
"I know, Mamá. I'm okay. I'm safe."
"Where are you? Are you eating? You sound tired."
I catch Mikhail's eye. He's watching me intently, probably understanding more Spanish than he lets on.
"I'm fine. I'm with... friends."
"The same man from before? The one who's protecting you?"
"Yes."
"Good. A woman needs protection sometimes, even strong ones like you." She pauses. "Mariana, there's something different in your voice."
How do mothers always know?!
"I'm just tired, Mamá. Listen, there’s something I need to tell you, but you have to promise that you're going to trust me and not worry too much despite the situation..."
"What's going on? Of course I'm already worried. Did something happen? Does that man you're with have something to do with it?"
I nearly drop the phone. "Uh... Yeah, I guess so, something like that..."
"Ay, Dios mío! You are pregnant! That's it, right? My baby is having a baby!"
"Mamá—"
"Is it his? That man? The protector?"
I look at Mikhail, who's now grinning like an idiot. "Si."
"Good. Strong men make strong babies. When is the wedding?"
"Wedding? Mamá, we're not—!"
"You're carrying his child and you're not married? Mariana Esperanza Castillo, your grandmother is rolling in her grave!"
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. He puts a ring on your finger or I fly to New York myself."
"You can't fly to New York. I'm wanted by the FBI!"
"I don't care if you're wanted by God himself. My daughter will not have a baby without being married."
Mikhail takes the phone from my hand. "Mrs. Castillo? This is Mikhail," he says, switching to English.
"You! You got my daughter pregnant!"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Are you going to marry her?"
"As soon as she lets me. I'm trying to convince her, but she's stubborn."
"She's a Castillo woman; stubbornness runs in our blood. Don’t pay attention to her, mijo. She'll marry you. Now, listen to me. You hurt her, I hurt you. Understand?"
"Perfectly."
"Good. Put Mariana back on."
He hands me the phone, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"Mamá—," switching to Spanish again
"I like him," she says. "He sounds like he means business. You have to marry that man, mija."
"I have to go."
"I love you. Be safe. And for the love of God, eat something—you're eating for two now!"
She hangs up, leaving me staring at the phone while Mikhail watches with amusement.
"Your mother's fierce," he says.
"You have no idea." I flop back on the pillows. "She once chased my high school boyfriend with a chancla for bringing me home ten minutes late."
"Chancla?"
"A flip-flop. Mexican mother's weapon of choice."
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "I would have liked to see that."
"She'll probably throw one at you when she finds out you're Bratva."
"Former Bratva."
"That distinction won't matter to her either."
He stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow. "Tell me about her."
"Why?"
"She's going to be my child's grandmother. I should know her."
My child. The possessiveness should annoy me. Instead, it makes something tender unfold in my chest.
"She came here when she was twenty. Pregnant with me, alone, speaking barely any English. My father had just been killed in a gang dispute—wrong place, wrong time. She could have given up, gone back to Mexico. Instead, she worked three jobs to keep us afloat."
"Strong women raise strong daughters."
"She's going to want to meet you."
"I'd be honored."
"Even if she throws something at you?"
"Especially then. I respect a woman who protects what's hers."
"Like you?"
"Exactly like me." His hand moves to my stomach, resting there gently. "How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?"
"I don't even feel pregnant yet."
He gets up. "Stay here. I'll make breakfast."
"I can make my own breakfast—"
"You need protein and prenatal vitamins. I’ll have them delivered as soon as possible."
"You—!"
"Our baby is growing. You need them." He's already heading to the kitchen. "Don't move."
I touch the bite mark on my neck, and heat spirals through me at the memory of last night—his hands holding me in place, making me watch in the mirror as he claimed me. The way he demanded I say I was his. The way my body responded like it was made for him.
Stop it. Getting aroused by caveman behavior is not helpful.
But my fingers keep tracing the mark, and my thighs clench involuntarily.
Twenty minutes later, he returns with a tray—scrambled eggs, whole grain toast, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a handful of vitamins.
"I'm not an invalid," I protest.
"You're carrying my child. That makes you precious cargo." He sets the tray on my lap, then sits beside me to make sure I eat.
"This is ridiculous."
"This is necessary. Eat."
I manage three bites before my phone buzzes. Harrison's name appears in a news alert—he's holding a press conference about the "dangerous fugitives" threatening national security.
"I need my laptop," I say. "If he's making public statements, there might be inconsistencies we can use—"
"No."
"Excuse me?"
"You're not working on this case right now. You're resting and eating."
"I'm pregnant, not broken!" I shove the tray aside, nearly spilling orange juice. "This is exactly what I was talking about. You can't sideline me!"
"I'm not sidelining you. I'm prioritizing—"
"Controlling me! That's what you're doing!" I'm on my feet now, pacing despite my nakedness. "What's next? You’re gonna offer me money to sit pretty while you handle everything?"
"If that's what it takes—"
"Don't you dare!" I spin to face him. "I'm not some kept woman you can throw money at. I pay my own way. Always have, always will."
"You're being stubborn—"
"I'm being independent! Something you clearly have a problem with!"
"I have a problem with you putting yourself in danger!"
"And I have a problem with you treating me like I'm made of glass!"
He stands, moving into my space. "You collapsed yesterday—"
"Again, from exhaustion, not pregnancy!"
"You're carrying our child—"
"Which doesn't make me your property to manage!"
"Then what does it make you?" His voice has gone low, dangerous.
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze steadily. "Your equal. Your partner. Or nothing at all."
The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire.
"You're impossible," he says finally.
"So are you."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection. I need respect."
"I respect you—"
"Then show it. Stop hovering. Stop treating me like I'm fragile. Stop trying to lock me in a tower."
He runs a hand through his silver hair, frustration clear in every line of his body. "What if something happens to you? To the baby?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. As equals."
"I can't lose you."
The raw honesty in his voice makes my anger falter.
"You won't," I say more softly. "But you will push me away if you keep trying to control me."
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Fine. We work the case together. But you take the vitamins."
"Deal."
"And you eat proper meals."
"Within reason."
"And you let me check your bandage from the glass cut."
I'd forgotten about that—the cut from the window when the contractors attacked. "It's fine—"
"Let me see."
I hold out my arm, and he unwraps the gauze carefully. The cut is healing well, just a thin red line now.
"It'll scar," he says, tracing it gently.
"Another one for the collection."
"No more scars," he says fiercely. "No more injuries. No more close calls."
"You can't ask for all that."
"Watch me." He rewraps my arm, then pulls me against him. "I know you're strong. I know you're capable. But you're also mine to protect, whether you like it or not."
"Mikhail—"
"And I'm yours," he continues. "To protect, to fight beside, to argue with when I'm being overbearing. That's what this is—mutual possession. Equal partnership. Can you accept that?"
I look up at him, this man who drives me crazy in every possible way.
"I'm still not taking your money."
"Fine."
"And I'm working on the case."
"Yes."
"And you stop the hovering."
"I'll... try."
It's probably the best I'm going to get.
My phone buzzes again. Alexei's follow-up text:
Harrison filed federal warrants for Mikhail. Murder charges for the contractors at your apartment. He's escalating.
Mikhail reads it over my shoulder, his body going tense.
"He's trying to separate us," he says quietly. "Make me the bigger threat so you'll cut a deal."
"I would never—"
"I know. But he doesn't." He sits back, thinking. "We need to be smart about this."
"What do you mean?"
"If I'm charged with murder and you're just wanted for questioning, they'll use that disparity. A good lawyer could argue you were coerced, that you're a victim not an accomplice."
"But I'm not a victim."
"I know that. You know that. But legally—" He pauses. "We should get married."
"What?"
"Spousal privilege. You can't be compelled to testify against me. And if something happens, you and the baby are protected. My accounts, my properties, everything becomes yours."
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"Harrison's desperate. Desperate men do desperate things." He cups my face. "I need to know you're protected. Both of you."
I look at this man—this dangerous, possessive, infuriating man who's turned my life upside down in a few weeks. Who gave me a baby. Who marks me with bites and calls me his, like he has any right.
Who looks at me like I'm his entire world.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is strategic."
"My mother will be thrilled."
"See? Everyone wins."
I touch the bite mark on my neck again, feeling the raised edges. This man has claimed me in every way possible—physically, emotionally, and now he wants to do it legally.
The independent part of me wants to refuse, to insist I don't need his protection or his name. But the practical part knows he's right about spousal privilege. And the traitorous part of me that's been growing stronger every day actually wants to be his wife.
When did I become this woman? The kind who considers marrying a criminal after six days?
But looking at him now, seeing the vulnerability beneath his controlling nature, the fear of losing me that drives his overprotectiveness, I realize I've already chosen.
I chose him the moment I trusted him over my own department. Chose him when I let him claim me last night. Choose him every time I wake up in his arms and feel safer than I ever did with a badge and gun.
"Okay," I say finally. "But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"And my mother gets to plan a proper wedding reception when this is over."
He grins. "She'll probably want it in a church."
"Catholic church. With a mariachi band."
"I can work with that."
"You sure you want to marry into this chaos?"
"Little wolf," he says, pulling me back against his chest, "I'd marry you in a federal prison if that's what it took to make you mine legally."
"You're already claiming I'm yours to anyone who'll listen."
"Now I'll have paperwork to prove it."
I should be terrified. Should be second-guessing everything. Instead, I'm thinking about how our children will have his eyes and my stubbornness, his protection and my independence.
Our children. Plural. Because apparently I'm already planning a future with this man.
"When?" I ask.
"Today. Alexei knows a judge who'll do it quietly."
"Today?"
"Why wait? You're already carrying my child. Already wearing my mark." His hand traces the bite on my neck, making me shiver. "Might as well make it official."
"My mother really is going to kill us for not letting her be there."
"We'll tell her it was a legal formality. The real wedding comes later."
"Promise?"
"I promise." He kisses my temple. "Now, let me call Alexei and arrange everything."
As he reaches for his phone, I catch his hand.
"Mikhail?"
"Yes?"
"I'm still not taking your money."
He laughs, rich and warm. "Stubborn woman."
"Your stubborn woman, apparently."
"Mine," he agrees, and the satisfaction in his voice makes my traitorous heart skip.
I'm getting married today. To a criminal. While pregnant. And wanted by the FBI.
Mamá was right. I do make everything complicated.