Chapter Twenty-Four - Aleksandr
I’m pregnant.
The words loop in my head during the entire drive to the clinic. Elena sits rigid beside me in the car, staring out the window, hands clasped so tight in her lap her knuckles are white.
I want to say something. Should say something. But every word that forms feels inadequate or wrong.
My child. Possibly. Her body carrying something that’s mine, that we created in my office that night when control shattered completely.
The thought fills me with something fierce and possessive. Not anger—never anger. Something else entirely. Something that feels like claim and terror and desperate need all tangled together.
Viktor pulls up to the private clinic I use for sensitive matters. Discreet. Secure. Doctors who understand that patient confidentiality isn’t optional; it’s survival.
“Stay with the car,” I tell him. “No one gets near her without my explicit approval.”
“Understood.”
I help Elena out, my hand settling automatically at her lower back. She’s trembling. Barely noticeable, but I feel it through the thin fabric of her dress.
The clinic interior is all sterile white walls and quiet professionalism. A nurse greets us immediately, clearly expecting our arrival. Viktor called ahead.
“Mr. Sharov. Mrs. Sharov. Dr. Kuzmin is ready for you.”
We’re led to a private waiting area, small and windowless. Elena sits on the edge of a chair, rubbing her hands together compulsively. Nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
I sit beside her. Too close, probably. But I can’t seem to help it.
My arm drapes over her shoulders without conscious decision. Thumb stroking absently along her collarbone, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
That means something. I’m not sure what yet, but it means something.
“What if it’s positive?” she asks quietly.
“Then we adjust.”
“That’s not—” She shakes her head. “That’s not an answer.”
“What answer do you want?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”
I pull her closer, letting her head rest against my shoulder. She resists for half a second before giving in, exhaustion winning over pride.
“You’re allowed to feel however you feel,” I tell her. “Fear. Uncertainty. Whatever it is.”
“Are you scared?”
The question catches me off guard. Am I?
“Yes,” I admit.
She tilts her head to look at me. “You don’t seem scared.”
“I’m very good at hiding it.”
We fall into silence. My mind drifts to places I normally keep locked away. Memories I’ve spent years burying under discipline and control.
My father. The Sharov estate in winter, cold and brutal. Seven years old, knuckles bloody from fighting back against a punishment I didn’t deserve. Ten years old, learning that weakness meant violence.
Twelve, understanding that love was conditional on utility, that children existed to serve legacy, not to be cherished.
Fifteen, watching my father beat my younger brother [13]unconscious for crying during training. Realizing that this—this violence disguised as discipline—was what family meant in our world.
Twenty-three, putting a bullet in my father’s head when he became more liability than asset to the organization.
Never once feeling regret about it.
This child will never know what I knew. Will never feel disposable. Will never learn that love has conditions.
The thought is so fierce it almost hurts.
“Aleksandr?” Elena’s voice pulls me back. “Where did you go?”
“Nowhere. Just thinking.”
“About?”
I should deflect. Should maintain the walls I’ve built so carefully. But something about this moment—her vulnerability pressed against my side, the possibility of our child growing inside her—strips away the usual defenses.
“My father,” I say quietly. “My childhood.”
She goes very still. “You never talk about that.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Will you now?”
I’m quiet for a long moment. Then: “He was brutal. Believed children existed to serve the family legacy. That weakness needed to be beaten out, that affection was dangerous, that love was a liability that got people killed.”
Elena’s hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. The gesture is small but anchoring.
“He treated you and Lev like tools.”
“Like extensions of power. Tools to be sharpened and deployed.” I stare at the opposite wall, seeing the past instead of sterile white paint.
“I was seven the first time he broke my ribs. Punishment for showing fear during a meeting with rival families. Ten when I learned that crying meant escalation, that emotion was weakness, that the only way to survive was to become harder than whatever he threw at me.”
“Aleksandr?”
“Lev had it worse. He was younger, softer. Took longer to learn the rules. I tried to protect him, but that just made Father angrier. Said I was making him weak, that protection bred dependence.” My jaw tightens.
“He beat Lev unconscious when he was twelve for crying during weapons training. I watched and did nothing because interfering meant we both got hurt.”
Elena’s grip on my hand tightens.
“When I killed him,” I continue, “when I finally put a bullet in his head years later—I felt nothing. No regret. No grief. Just relief that he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore.”
Silence stretches between us. Heavy with things I’ve never said out loud, with vulnerability I don’t show anyone.
“If there is a child,” I say finally, voice rough, “our child will never know that. Will never be afraid in their own home. Will never be treated as disposable or conditional or anything less than wanted.”
I turn to face her fully. Her eyes are wide, glassy with unshed tears.
“That child will be protected. Cherished. Given everything I never had.” I cup her face with my free hand. “That’s my promise. Whether you believe it or not.”
“I believe you,” she whispers.
The words hit harder than they should. This woman who has every reason not to trust me, who I’ve forced into marriage and captivity and impossible choices—she believes me about this.
The door opens. Dr. Kuzmin enters, professional and efficient.
“Mrs. Sharov, we’re ready for you.”
Elena stands on shaky legs. I stand with her, hand moving to her waist instinctively.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I ask.
She looks at me for a long moment. Then nods. “Yes. Please.”
The examination room is small and clinical. Elena sits on the paper-covered table, hands gripping the edge, while Dr. Kuzmin prepares a blood draw.
I stand against the wall, giving them space but unable to leave. My mind runs through scenarios compulsively—security if she’s pregnant, dietary requirements, threat assessments, how to protect her and a child simultaneously.
“This will confirm pregnancy if present,” Dr. Kuzmin explains. “We’ll have results in approximately thirty minutes. I can also perform an ultrasound if the blood test is positive.”
Elena nods wordlessly.
The blood draw is quick. Dr. Kuzmin labels the vial and exits, leaving us alone.
I move to Elena immediately. Stand between her legs where she sits on the table, hands settling on her thighs.
“Whatever the result,” I tell her, “we handle it together.”
“Together.” She tests the word. “Like a team?”
“Like partners.” It’s the closest I can get to what I actually mean. “You’re not alone in this. You’re not facing it without support.”
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, just over my heart. “I’m terrified.”
“I know.”
“I’m also…” She pauses, searching for words. “Not completely opposed to the idea. Which terrifies me more.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes this real. Makes us real. Makes it harder to pretend this is just captivity and survival.” Her eyes meet mine. “If I’m carrying your child, I can’t keep telling myself I’m just enduring until I can escape.”
“You ran three days ago,” I point out.
“I know. Look how that turned out.” Her laugh is hollow. “Maybe I’m meant to be here. Maybe fighting it just causes more pain.”
“Or maybe you’re exhausted and traumatized and processing too much at once.” I brush hair back from her face. “Don’t make permanent decisions based on temporary emotions.”
“That’s rich coming from the man who forced me into permanent marriage.”
“Fair point.”
We fall into silence. My hands haven’t moved from her thighs. Her hands are still on my chest, feeling my heartbeat.
The tension between us is thick. Heavy with everything unsaid, everything we’re both feeling but not naming.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away. Press my forehead to hers, breathing her in.
“You’re not alone anymore,” I murmur. “Not you. Not our child. I won’t let you be.”
“That sounds like a threat and a promise.”
“It’s both.”
Her breath hitches. My hands slide up slightly, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of her inner thighs through her dress. Not sexual—not quite. Just intimacy. Connection.
“Aleksandr—”
The door opens. We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
Dr. Kuzmin enters with a tablet, expression professionally neutral. “Mr. and Mrs. Sharov. The results are conclusive.”
My heart stops.
“Mrs. Sharov, you are approximately five weeks pregnant. Congratulations.”
The room tilts. Five weeks. From that night in my office. From when control shattered and I took her on my desk, desperate and furious and unable to stop myself.
Elena makes a small sound. I grip her hand without thinking, anchoring us both.
We opt for the ultrasound, and afterward, Dr. Kuzmin says, “Congratulations again. I’ll leave you both to process.”
She exits, and we’re alone with the ultrasound images and the weight of certainty.
Elena sits up slowly, gel still on her stomach, holding the images with shaking hands.
“It’s real,” she whispers. “This is actually happening. Jesus.”
“Yes.”
“I’m pregnant. With your child. We’re having a baby.”
“Yes.”
She looks at me, eyes wide and lost. “What do we do now?”
I take the images from her hands, set them carefully aside. Cup her face between my palms.
“Now we prepare. We protect. We build a life that’s safe for all three of us.” I lean in close. “You’re not just my wife anymore. You’re the mother of my child. That changes everything.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.” I kiss her forehead, gentle and reverent. “Everything.”