Chapter 35
GABBY
The maternity boutique smells like lavender, and soft covers of pop songs drift out of the speakers.
I’m in the biggest, most spacious dressing room, staring at myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror that leaves nothing to the imagination.
And I look good, really good. I’m not normally one to flatter myself, but the dress I’m wearing—a deep sapphire wrap—clings where it should and flows where it needs to.
And my boobs… wow. The V-neck dips lower than I’m used to, framing my cleavage in a way that’s a little more eye-catching than is typical for me.
Right there under the empire seam is the undeniable swell of pregnancy.
I’m close to the end of the first trimester of my pregnancy, and only recently has the actual physical evidence started to appear.
A soft knock sounds at the door as I stand there in mild disbelief.
“You alright in there?” It’s Sasha, his almost inhumanly low voice practically shaking the walls with bass.
“Better than alright, I think.”
“Hm. That’s two very different answers.”
I twist sideways. My hips are already flaring wider than they did pre-pregnancy. My inner foster kid speaks up, telling me ‘too much, take up less space’. I push her down. Today’s not the day for her.
Sasha insisted on taking me out for new maternity clothes.
Part of me thought it was a bad idea, dangerous.
But I realized what it was—a chance for him to show me he’s not going to keep me cooped up and locked away, that he wants me in clothes that let me show myself off and feel comfortable and confident.
I was happy to take him up on it. A small army of men guard us, but they’re good at staying hidden—well enough that I can pretend it’s just the two of us.
“If you don’t say anything,” Sasha says, “I’ll be forced to barge in.”
I laugh, stepping over and pushing the door open a bit. “No need to bust any doors open. Come in.”
He enters, his massive frame making the dressing room seem smaller. He shuts the door behind him, placing his hand on his chin and really looking at me, appraising me. Moments tick by.
When the heat of his gaze on me becomes too much, I clear my throat. “Say something,” I tell him. “What’s your vibe on the whole… thing?” I sweep my hands over the dress, my body.
He steps closer, placing his hands on my hips and pulling me against him. “The vibe is that if we were at home right now instead of in public, you wouldn’t be wearing that dress for very long.”
Oh boy. My thighs press together instinctively, my pussy clenching. To make matters worse, he leans in and plants a single, slow kiss on my neck. I break out in goosebumps instantly.
“You want to know what I think of you in this dress? Let me tell you.”
He wraps his arm around my waist, leading me to the small sitting area in the dressing room.
He sits, pulling me down onto his lap, and I let out a squeal of surprise at the swiftness of it.
I love the way he handles me so easily. He places one hand on my thigh, the other on my chin, tilting me down to look at that impossibly handsome face of his.
“This dress makes me stare at your body. And when I do, I see the strength in you that’s survived every goddamn storm that’s been thrown at you.
Not just now, but throughout your whole life.
” He squeezes my thigh. “I love the way this dress clings to your thighs. God, I love these thighs, how deliciously thick they are, how they feel wrapped around me when I’m on top of you. ”
My heart’s pounding. “Mr. Orlov…”
“I’m not done,” he says quickly. He sure as hell isn’t.
His hands move down, cupping my ass. I gasp, my nipples going hard.
“And this ass. It’s gorgeous, its power, I can’t stop staring at it or stop thinking about it.
And if you did something foolish, like trying to make it smaller… I don’t know if I could forgive you.”
I chew on my lower lip, my head spinning.
“But I’d be doing you a disservice if I discussed your body as if it existed only for my pleasure.
It’s so much more than that. It’s where your brilliant mind resides, and it’s where you’re growing our family.
” He moves his right hand up, coming to a rest on my belly.
Normally, I’m tense and protective of this area. But with Sasha, it’s so, so different.
“That’s you.”
He smirks. “So to answer your question about what I think of you in this dress, I think the dress is worthy of your body. But just barely.”
I glance over my shoulder at the mirror. Instead of a stiff, uncomfortable pose—my usual move when trying on clothes—I look different. I’m on Sasha’s lap, my hair draped over one shoulder, my leg around his waist, the dress hitched up enough to show off the expanse of my thigh.
I look… Wow.
“See?” he asks. “That’s a little glimpse of what you look like to me, every moment of the day.”
“Then we should get the dress.”
He winks. “We should get it in every color.”
It’s later that evening. The booth at Volver’s is a lovely little cocoon of candlelight and velvet. Chicago glitters just beyond the windows. The restaurant is packed, but it feels like it’s just us. My dress catches the low flicker of the candle on the table, making me feel deliciously glamorous.
Sasha pours sparkling water into two champagne flutes, adding a twist of lime.
“You know,” I say, “you don’t have to go sober on my behalf.”
“I can show a little solidarity with you every now and then. Besides, I don’t mind having a clear head—all the better to appreciate my lovely company.”
I shift in my seat a little. Something is both different and familiar about Sasha. He’s the same guy, Bratva connections and all. But he’s… nicer? Is that it? Either way, I kind of like it.
A thought occurs to me. “You know, I can’t help but wonder if you’ve been listening to Bogdan’s relationship advice. It feels like you’ve dialed things up in the empathy department.”
He chuckles. “More than that. Let’s just say I’m trying to do things a little differently.”
“Well, it’s working for you.”
“Then that sounds like a perfect toast.” He raises his glass, bubbles floating among the wedge of lime. “To doing things a little differently.”
I smile. “I’ll drink to that.”
We tap rims, and I bring the drink to my lips. Sasha and I lock eyes over the glasses. As we do, a very uncomfortable thought occurs to me—what if there are ulterior motives going on? What if this isn’t about Sasha turning a corner, but him trying to butter me up for some reason?
Before I can give the matter too much more thought, the server arrives with our meals—two filet mignon, charred broccolini, and scalloped potatoes. My mouth actually starts to water, and I have to swallow
“You alright over there?” he asks, a wry play on his lips.
“Yes, I’m just hungry.”
He laughs, reaching over and cutting into my steak. I watch the process hypnotically, my gaze locked onto the slice of knife into meat, more juices flowing out, the cut revealing the gorgeous medium pink inside.
“Normally, rarer would be the way to go,” he says, spearing the cut-off piece with his fork and raising it toward me. “But seeing as how you’re pregnant, it’s better to be a little more done.”
I’m staring at the meat. By total instinct, I lean forward and wrap my mouth around the bite. The taste is intense. Perfectly cooked, perfectly tender. It’s so good, in fact, I barely notice the fact that he’s feeding me.
I chew, closing my eyes and savoring every bite. After I swallow, I tell him, “You know, I can cut my own food.”
“I know. But it’s hard to resist taking care of you in every way I can.”
I tilt my head as I gaze at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“I insist.”
There’s something about Sasha in these moments, something more open than I’ve seen from him, maybe ever. I want to take advantage of it. His eyes are fixed on me as he cuts his steak and takes a bite.
“Tell me something true,” I say. “Not something pakhan. Not something CEO. Just Sasha.”
His jaw works as he finishes chewing. Then he flicks those obsidian pools back to me, but instead of dark and unreadable, they’re almost warm.
“I used to think love was a weakness. My father drilled the idea into me. He was a good man, make no mistake, but he was hard. He had to be. He told me these words at a young age—'feel nothing, lose nothing.’”
“Yikes, that’s a little dark.”
“Maybe, but necessary. You don’t survive in this world by getting attached to anything or anyone. You’re nothing more than a conduit for the Bratva. You serve it, not the other way around. There’s no room for love when that’s the role into which you were born.”
I say nothing, letting him go on.
“Something changed that: you.”
My heart twinges. I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, he goes on.
“When you graduated from the University of Chicago, to be specific, I was there. I remember it well.”
“You’re kidding.”
He takes another bite, slowly chewing and swallowing, letting me take in his words.
“Not at all. I’d made a bit of a rule for myself: not to get too involved in your life in person until you came to work for me, of course.
That would merely complicate matters. But as time went on and your reputation for brilliance became impossible to ignore, I had to at least see the beginning of what would certainly be an incredible adult life.
So I watched you walk. Clapped politely for you. ”
I don’t know what to say to this. “You were there?”
“I was there. And even though we hadn’t spoken a word to each other, I felt proud.” His brow crinkles in an odd way. He takes a sip of his water, bringing it to his lips with a slight quickness unusual for him.
“Now, you,” he says. “It’s only fair.”
“A truth?”
He purses his lips, giving the question some thought. “No, a fear.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “A fear? You mean other than some Bratva thug busting in here and icing me right in the middle of my dinner?”
A wry grin. “Something deeper than that, more existential.”
At first thought, the question seems like way too much, like something I’d need more than ten seconds to come up with. Then an answer occurs to me.
“I know. I’ve got a big one.”
“Tell me.” He’s not giving me an out. He wants to know more than anything.
I take a sip of my fizzy water, clear my throat, smooth the front of my dress for some reason, then start. “My fear is that this is all fake.”
He cocks his head to the side, genuinely confused. “Fake?”
“Fake, like everything I’ve done was done for me, that everything I’ve built—degree, job, even myself—was handed to me, that I’m not real without what you’ve done behind the scenes.”
Something strange flashes in his eyes. His hand moves toward me, making me tense, but he only places it over mine. It’s warm and rough and huge in that way I love, calming me instantly.
“Never think that, never. Everything you have, you’ve earned. If I weren’t pulling strings from the shadows, you would’ve pulled them yourself. I merely saved you the trouble. You’re brilliant. Never forget it.”
I don’t know what to say. We eat, and I soak in his words, letting them move through me.
It’s a hell of a back and forth—finding out that my life was a lie, then a truth, then another lie, then a truth.
Everything’s so goddamn disorienting. And the only steady feelings I have, the only truths I can count on, are my love for these babies inside me and my attraction to the man sitting across the table.
“I have a confession,” he says, his voice low.
“Oh no,” I reply. “Not sure I can handle any more bombshells tonight.”
A smirk. “This one’s a little less severe. I occasionally have a bit of a sweet tooth.”
Relief washes over me, and I laugh. “Alright. That’s the kind of revelation I can handle.”
“Maybe it’s a bit of an old-fashioned choice, but the lava cake here is quite nice. Shall I order one? Or two?”
I practically salivate at the mention of dessert. “Better make it two. There’s four of us at the table, remember.”
“Very good point.”
He signals, the waiter appears, and the order is sent. In no time at all, two gorgeous lava cakes arrive. I hold my hand over top of it, feeling the heat inside.
“By all means,” he says.
I lick my lips, placing the edge of my spoon on the top of my cake and cleaving through. Dark chocolate pours out onto the plate. I cut off a corner, scooping a little of that decadent, dark molten chocolate up with it, and pop the spoon into my mouth.
It’s heaven. Pure. Freaking. Heaven.
I’m halfway through the thing by the time I finally come to my senses. When I do, I realize Sasha’s watching me. A tinge of embarrassment runs through me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I mean, you’re right about the lava cake. It’s pretty da-”
Before I can finish my sentence, his hand shoots across the table. It lands on mine the way it did before, but this time there’s more urgency. It shuts me up right away.
“Never apologize for enjoying yourself. Never.”
I lick my lips, the taste of cake lingering on them. It’s sweet. Perfect.
“You mind if we get these to-go?”
He grins wolfishly.
“I thought you’d never ask.”