Chapter 14
STEFAN
I watch Olivia disappear into the manor, her shoulders squared and chin held high. Seven o’clock tomorrow. A dinner that’s not a date. A conversation where I’m supposed to lay myself bare and hope she doesn’t run screaming.
The mere thought makes my jaw clench.
But I’ll do it. For her. For our child.
For whatever the fuck this thing between us is becoming.
I catch up to her on the stairs. She’s got one hand on the railing, the other pressed to her stomach. She’s moving slow, exhausted. The pregnancy is taking its toll, and she’s too stubborn to admit it.
“You don’t have to run back to your room, you know.”
She doesn’t turn around. “I’m not running.”
“You’re moving at a pace that suggests you’d rather be anywhere but here.” I take the stairs two at a time and stand next to her. “When’s the last time you ate something that didn’t come right back up?”
When she doesn’t answer, I nod. “That’s what I thought. A pregnant woman needs copious amounts of folic acid, calcium, and iron.” I step in front of her, blocking her path. “You’re getting none of those things if you can’t keep food down.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You’ve been reading pregnancy books?”
“I’ve been reading everything I can find.”
“That’s surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Come on.” I turn and head back down the stairs. “I’m making you food.”
“I said I wasn’t hungry.”
“Your stomach says otherwise. I can hear it growling from here.”
She follows me—reluctantly, sure, but she follows. Small victories.
The kitchen is empty when we enter. Babushka must have retired for the evening, leaving behind the lingering scent of whatever she cooked earlier. I flip on the lights and head straight for the refrigerator.
“Sit,” I tell Olivia, gesturing at the island.
“I can help—”
“Sit.”
She perches on one of the barstools and watches me. I pull out ingredients methodically: fresh fish from this morning’s grocery delivery, fennel, butter, greens from Babushka’s garden.
I wash my hands and get to work. The knife carves easily through the fish, separating flesh from bone. It’s meditative to focus on something so small and precise.
“Where did you learn to cook?” she asks.
“Mostly from Babushka.” I don’t look up from the cutting board. The fennel falls into thin slices under my blade. “She liked to teach me a new recipe every week. Said a man who couldn’t feed himself was worthless.” I glance at her. “She also said a man who couldn’t feed his woman was even worse.”
Olivia’s cheeks flush. “I’m not your woman.”
“You’re carrying my child. That makes you mine, whether you like it or not.”
“Possessive much?”
“You have no idea.”
I heat butter in the pan, watching it foam and brown. The fish goes in with a satisfying sizzle. The scent fills the kitchen—rich, savory, alive.
“What else did Babushka teach you?”
“How to survive. How to hide. How to make sure no one ever got close enough to hurt me again.” I flip the fish. “Useful skills when your uncle wants you dead and your mother’s a ghost in the wind.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. That must have been terrifying.”
“Terrifying implies I had the luxury of feeling scared.” I plate the fish and drizzle the sauce over it. “I didn’t have that luxury.”
I slide the plate across the island to her, along with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. She takes a bite, and I watch her face transform. Eyes closing in pleasure, a small moan escaping her throat.
“This is really good,” she admits.
“I know.”
“Anyone ever tell you how charmingly modest you are?”
“Honesty isn’t modesty.” I lean against the counter across from her. “I’ve always been good with my hands, Olivia. I’m sure you remember.”
She sets down her fork hard on the plate. “Are you trying to seduce me?”
“Would it work?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not trying.”
She glares at me, but her eyes are telling me a different story. We’re both remembering things: desks slicked with sweat, a plastic specimen cup, moans echoing through an empty office.
“Eat,” I urge her again. “You need your strength.”
She does, and I watch every bite. Under my eyes, her body relaxes as real food settles in her stomach and color returns to her cheeks.
She studies my face, searching for something. Whatever it is, she must find it, because she nods and picks up her fork again. “You know something?” she says after a few bites. “Seeing the baby with my eyes today didn’t do much for me. It just looked like a bad doodle.”
I laugh. “It did look pretty abstract.”
“But the heartbeat...” Her face softens. “That knocked me out. It was the most amazing sound I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeah.” I move to the sink and start washing the pan. “It was.”
“I wish I could have recorded it or something. To keep it.”
“They’ll do it, if I ask them to.”
“You can get anything you want, can’t you?” she teases.
I turn off the water and face her. “No one gets everything they want. Not even me.”
Her eyes search mine. “What do you want that you can’t have?”
You. Trust. A clean slate. A future where my past doesn’t poison everything good.
“Lots of things,” I say instead.
She opens her mouth to press, but a scream tears through the house—distant but unmistakable. High-pitched. Female. Furious.
Mikayla.
Olivia jumps off the barstool, knife clattering to the floor. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” I move toward the door. “Stay here.”
“Stefan—”
But I’m already gone, heading toward the foyer where I can hear commotion. The basement door slams shut just as I round the corner. The head of my security team, Arkady, stands there, nose bleeding, one hand pressed to his face.
“What happened?” I demand.
“Crazy bitch attacked me!” He pulls his hand away and I see his nose is definitely broken. “I was just bringing her food, and she went fucking feral. She’s demanding to see you.”
“She can demand all she wants. I’m not seeing her until I have a reason to.”
Arkady nods and heads off, still clamping his bloody nose. I check myself in the hallway mirror—no blood, nothing out of place. The kitchen awaits, and so does Olivia.
When I return, she’s standing exactly where I left her, arms crossed, face pale.
“What was that?” she asks again.
“Just Bratva business. Nothing to concern yourself with.”
“Someone screamed, Stefan. In this house. Where I’m living. That concerns me.”
“It’s handled.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I move past her to finish cleaning up. “It’s the only answer you’re getting.”
“Why?” She follows me relentlessly.
My hands go still on the dish I’m washing. “Drop it.”
“No.” She plants herself in front of me. “I deserve to know what’s happening under this roof. Especially if it involves someone being held prisoner.”
“Since you’re not Bratva, you don’t get to be privy to our secrets.”
Her face goes hard. “There it is. The real Stefan Safonov.” She backs away. “Need-to-know stuff again, and I never, ever need to know.”
“Olivia—”
“What you’re describing is the relationship between a boss and his subordinate. Not equal partners in life.”
“This isn’t about partnership.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” She moves toward the door.
“Because being in a relationship—a real one—requires a lot. Trust. Honesty. Vulnerability. And you should be prepared to give a lot, too. But I don’t think you’re capable of understanding that because all you’ve ever known is secrets and lies and betrayals.
And if someone does hurt you… Well then, who needs forgiveness when you can resort to murder, right? ”
I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing at all.
“Thanks for cooking for me,” she says, her voice empty. “But I’m not hungry anymore.”