Chapter 27 Vera
VERA
The track office is smaller than I thought it would be, dingier too.
I sit on the edge of Misha's desk, cleared of the paperwork that cluttered it when we first came in, while the doctor cleans his stethoscope with an alcohol wipe.
River water dampens my hair, and my clothes cling to my skin in moist patches that remind me of how close we came to drowning.
But at least I'm not shivering violently anymore, not with the heat turned up so high in here.
Misha stands by the window, his back rigid as he watches the activity outside.
His shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing a glimpse of the tattoos that snake down his arm.
Water pools at his feet from his soaked clothing, but he doesn't seem to notice.
His attention focuses entirely on the track below, where his men move through the crowds.
"Your pulse is elevated, but that's to be expected given your recent trauma." The doctor's hands feel cold as he presses the scope to my chest. Sweat beads on his forehead. It must feel hot in here to him. "Blood pressure is within normal range. No signs of hypothermia despite your submersion."
I nod, though my thoughts drift to the moments underwater when Misha's arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me toward the surface. The way his breath warmed my face when we broke through. The desperate look in his eyes when he dragged me onto the muddy bank.
"The pregnancy appears stable at six weeks," he continues, making notes on his clipboard. "No bleeding, no cramping?" I shake my head, and he furrows his brow and sighs. "The fetus weathered your ordeal remarkably well."
Misha turns from the window at those words. His ice-blue eyes find mine across the small room, and I see something shift in his expression. The hard mask he wears cracks for a moment, revealing vulnerability underneath.
"Six weeks," he repeats, as if testing the words. I see the hurt in his eyes, that I kept this from him for so long, but I knew what would happen. I know what he'll say next too—that he's benching me. He won't want me to have any part of taking Sonya down now.
The doctor glances at him before he packs his instruments into his bag. "I recommend rest for the remainder of the day. Avoid strenuous activity. If you experience any cramping or spotting, call immediately."
"Thank you, Doctor." Misha's voice carries dismissal, and the older man recognizes it. He nods once and leaves us alone in the small office.
The door clicks shut, and the room falls into a charged quiet.
Misha moves toward me with slow, deliberate steps.
His eyes never leave my face, and I can see him processing everything that has happened.
The chase through the warehouse district.
The plunge into the icy river. The confirmation that I carry his child.
"You could have died today," he finally says. His voice is rougher than usual, scraped raw by river water and emotion he's fighting to contain.
"But I didn't." I slide off the desk and face him. "We both made it out."
He reaches for me then, his hands framing my face with surprising gentleness. His thumbs trace the line of my cheekbones, and I feel the tremor in his fingers. This man who commands fear and respect from hardened criminals is shaking because he nearly lost me.
"This changes everything," he murmurs. His forehead touches mine, and his breath mingles with my own. "What you're carrying… what we've made together. I can't let anything happen to either of you."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "Then let me help you finish this. Let me be there when you take down Sonya."
His hands drop from my face, and he steps back. The shutters slam down over his expression, transforming him back into the cold strategist I first met weeks ago.
"No." The word comes out flat and final. "You stay here where I know you're protected. My men will watch the office. You don't move until I give the all-clear."
Anger flares in my chest. "I'm not some delicate flower that breaks at the first sign of trouble. I've been handling Sonya for months. I know her patterns, her tells. You need me out there."
"What I need is for you to be alive when this is over." Misha's voice hardens further, but I catch the underlying current of fear. "You think I'm going to risk losing you both now? After everything?"
"You won't lose us." I step closer, closing the distance he tried to create. "But you need to stop treating me like I'm made of glass. I've proven I can handle myself."
"Have you?" His laugh lacks any warmth. "You've been played by the Radich crew for months. Used as their puppet while they bled my books dry. If that's your idea of handling yourself—"
"Stop," I snap, cutting through his cruel assessment. "You know that's not fair. I did what I had to do to keep Elvin alive. Every choice I made was about protecting my brother."
Misha's jaw tightens, but some of the ice in his expression melts. "And now what? You want to throw yourself back into danger for what? Revenge?"
"For justice." I reach for his hands, surprised when he doesn't pull away. "For the chance to end this properly instead of always looking over our shoulders. Sonya used me, manipulated me into betraying your family. Let me be the one to bring her down."
"The answer is still no." But his grip on my hands contradicts his words, holding tight rather than pushing me away.
"Then give me a reason to stay." My voice drops lower, becoming more intimate. "Tell me why it's so important to you that I'm safe."
His eyes narrow. "You know why."
"No, I don't." I pull my hands free and cross my arms over my chest. "You talk about what I'm carrying, about protecting your heir. But what about me? What about Vera Kovalenko, not just the woman who happens to be pregnant with your child?"
Misha turns away, running a hand through his damp hair. "This isn't the time for games, Vera."
"I'm not playing games. I'm asking for honesty." I move to stand in front of him again, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You want me to sit in this office like a good little prisoner while you and Rolan handle everything. Fine. But first, you admit what's really going on here."
"What do you think is going on?" His voice carries a warning edge, but I push forward anyway.
"I think you care about me. Not just as a vessel for your child, but as a person. As a woman. And that terrifies you because caring makes you vulnerable."
His hands clench into fists at his sides. "Vulnerability gets you killed in my world."
"Maybe. Or maybe it makes you stronger because you have something worth fighting for." I reach up and cup his face, feeling the rough stubble beneath my palms. "Do you care about me, Misha? Not the pregnancy, not the political implications. Me."
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can see the war being fought behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to retreat into cold calculation battles against something deeper and more human.
"Don't" he warns, but I'm not backing down on this. I need to hear it. It's something I refuse to live without.
"Then I'm leaving. And you can see me in a courtroom if you'd like to get to know your child.
" I don't even know what I'm doing. It's a threat I can never enforce.
He has more money, more power. He could kill me the instant this baby is born, and what would I do then?
But my feet stomp toward the door as if I'm ready to make good on my threat, while I'm still frigid and on the verge of hypothermia.
"Yes," he says finally, the word barely above a whisper. "I care." I turn and face him, letting the tension out of my shoulders.
My heart leaps, but I don't let him off that easily. "That's not enough." My arms return to crossing over my chest.
"What do you want from me?" His voice rises, frustration bleeding through his controlled facade. His hands curl into fists and his face screws up into a dark scowl. "You want me to spill my guts? Confess my feelings like some lovesick boy?"
"I want you to be honest. With me and with yourself." I don't back down despite the fury building in his expression. "You said I belong to you now. What does that mean?"
"It means—" He stops himself, jaw working as he struggles with words that clearly don't come easily.
"It means what, Misha?"
"It means you're mine." The words come out rough and possessive. "It means the thought of losing you makes me want to burn down half of Moscow. It means I've spent weeks trying to figure out how to keep you safe while still being the man my family needs me to be."
Warmth spreads through my chest, but I press for more. "And?"
"And what?" But he knows what I'm asking for. I can see it in the way his eyes search my face. I step closer, enough so that I can reach him. My fingers slide over his wet shirt and feel his heart hammering against my fingertips.
"Say it." My voice goes soft, coaxing rather than demanding. "Say what we both know is true."
His hands come up to cover mine where they rest against his chest. "You're going to push until I say it, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Even though it changes nothing about your staying here while I handle Sonya?"
"That's negotiable once you're honest with me."
Misha closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, I see surrender there. "I love you," he says, the words seeming to tear themselves from his throat. "I love you, and it's the most dangerous thing I've ever admitted to anyone."
Joy explodes through me. Tears well up faster than I can blink them back. I launch myself into his arms, not caring that we're both still damp and cold. He catches me easily, his arms wrapping around my waist as I press my face into the curve of his neck.
"I love you too," I whisper against his skin. "I've loved you for weeks, even when I thought you were playing me, even when Batya told me to be afraid of you."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel him exhale shakily. "This complicates everything."
"No, it simplifies everything." I pull back to look at him. "Now we both have everything to lose, which means we're going to win."
"Vera—"
The office door slams open, making us both jump apart like startled teenagers. His hand is on his gun as I turn to see the cause of the chaos. Rolan stands in the doorway, his face grim and urgent. Behind him, I can see two of Misha's men keeping watch in the hallway.
"Sorry to interrupt," Rolan says, though his tone suggests he's not particularly sorry. "But Sonya just showed up. She's making her rounds to place bets before the races start."
Misha's entire demeanor shifts, the vulnerable man who just confessed his love transforming back into the dangerous strategist. "Where?"
"Stable block C. She's got two men with her, but they're trying to blend in with the crowd." Rolan's eyes flick between us. "If we move now, we can corner her before she realizes we're on to her operation."
"Give me two minutes to change clothes." Misha heads toward a small closet where he keeps spare shirts. "Position men at the exits. I don't want her slipping away when she sees us coming."
"Already done." Rolan nods toward me. "What about her?"
"She stays here." Misha pulls a dry shirt over his head. "Gregor and Thom will watch the office."
"Like hell I'm staying here." I step forward, ignoring the warning look Misha shoots me. "Sonya knows me. She trusts me. If I'm there, she won't suspect a trap until it's too late."
"We already discussed this," Misha says through gritted teeth.
"No, you made a unilateral decision after I got you to admit your feelings. That's not the same as a discussion." I turn to Rolan. "Tell him I'm right. Tell him that having me there gives you the advantage."
Rolan looks between us with the expression of a man who wants to be anywhere else. "She has a point, Uncle. Sonya might run if she sees us coming without her usual contact."
"See?" I cross my arms and give Misha a challenging look. "Your own nephew agrees with me."
Misha's eyes burn with fury, but I can see him weighing the tactical advantages. His love for me wars with his strategic mind, and I hold my breath waiting to see which side wins.
"If you come," he says finally, his voice deadly quiet, "you do exactly what I tell you. No improvisation. No heroics. You draw her out, and then you get behind cover while we handle the rest."
"Deal." The word comes out too quickly, and I see suspicion flicker across his face.
"I mean it, Vera. One step out of line, and I'll have you dragged back here in handcuffs."
"I understand." And I do understand, even if I don't necessarily agree with all the terms.
Rolan clears his throat. "We need to move. The afternoon races start in ten minutes, and the crowds are getting thicker."
Misha checks his gun, sliding it back into the shoulder holster hidden beneath his jacket. The movement is smooth and automatic. It's a reminder of the violence that lives beneath his expensive clothes.
"Ready?" he asks, his eyes finding mine.
I nod, my pulse quickening with anticipation and fear. "Ready."
As we head toward the door, Misha catches my arm with a gentle grip. "Remember what you promised me."
"I remember." I rise up on my toes and press a quick kiss to his mouth. "I love you too, you know."
His expression softens for just a moment before hardening back into the mask he wears for the world. "Let's go catch ourselves a thief."