Chapter 26
Kazimir
Istare at the faint seam in the ceiling where the plaster cracked years ago. I’m holding myself unnaturally still so I don’t wake the woman sprawled across me as if this is her bed, and not mine.
Alyona sleeps with reckless trust. One arm is draped over my chest, her palm warm and slack against my skin, her thigh thrown over mine in a way that would look possessive if she were conscious.
Her hair brushes my jaw, throat, and shoulder.
Every slow breath she takes presses her closer.
A gap in the curtains lets early afternoon sunlight in; it makes her blonde hair sparkle, softening my annoyance.
The dull, persistent ache along my ribs reminds me I am still stitched together, still healing. Tightness in my shoulder complains every time I inhale too deeply. Not only did I manage to get shot, but I’ve wrenched a muscle badly. None of it matters as much as the fact that I cannot move.
If I move, she will wake.
If she wakes, she will insist that I don’t get up—despite the fact that it’s been days and the chess pieces have shifted.
Nika and Liev are managing the men, following up on the intelligence we got from Hinto’s botched suicide job.
They report it all to me over the phone.
But like the slow-healing wound in my side, I’m itching to get back in the thick of it and hunt down the rat in the walls of my city.
The door opens quietly, the sound barely more than a change in air pressure, and Michael steps inside with the same unhurried confidence he always carries.
He's a med-school dropout who caters to a handful of men like me. He’s paid a lot of money to keep quiet, and that contrasts with his uncaring attitude and slightly unkempt appearance.
I don’t look at him, but I feel his attention immediately, and his pause as he takes in the scene.
“Well,” he says softly, professionally, though I can hear the amusement threading his voice. “That explains a few things. They said you haven’t been down yet today.”
I flick my eyes toward him without moving my head, trying for a glare. “If you wake her, I will choke you.”
He smiles openly at that and approaches the bed, careful not to jostle it. He checks the monitors first, then the bandages, his fingers practiced and light. Aly stirs when he adjusts the dressing along my ribs. Her fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of my unbuttoned shirt.
I stop breathing until she settles again.
Michael watches this exchange with fascination. “You’ve been awake a while,” he notes.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t call for assistance.”
“No.”
“Despite being uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Fascinating.”
“We ate breakfast. I walked the halls a few times and took some phone calls. She told me to rest,” I say flatly. “Then she fell asleep.”
“Ah.” He nods as if that explains everything. “A classic maneuver. You could do nothing to protect yourself.”
He continues his examination, murmuring observations under his breath, clearly pleased with my progress. “Healing nicely. No signs of infection. Pain manageable. A few weeks and I can clear you to go ahead and get shot again.”
“It would go faster if I could move around, get out,” I reply. “Isn’t that what doctors push? Getting back to normalcy? You could talk to her—”
He glances pointedly at the woman pinning me down. “You could wake her.”
“Absolutely not.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. He steps back, arms folding loosely over his chest as he studies the two of us, his gaze sharp but not unkind. He would never say it aloud, not if he values his continued employment and bodily integrity, but the thought is written plainly across his face.
The Bratva boss, held hostage by domesticity.
“She’s good for you,” he says lightly. “Though you’re probably scaring her to death.”
I scoff under my breath. “She’s trouble.”
“Yes. But you look more alive than you did four days ago. I didn’t have much hope, Mr. Baranov, when they carried you in. It seems you have something to live for.”
I don’t answer that.
Aly shifts again, sighing softly, and I feel it like a hook under my ribs. Michael notices, of course. He notices everything.
“I’ll stay for a few minutes,” he says, moving to the chair near the window instead of the door. “Maybe she’ll wake and I can impress upon her the importance of you getting back to normal operations, sans gunfights.”
“We’ll both need protection for that conversation,” I mutter.
He settles in, clearly entertained by the situation. I remain perfectly still beneath the warm, sleeping weight of the woman who has somehow turned my recovery into a quiet siege.
Michael’s gaze lingers on Aly longer than necessary, his earlier amusement draining into something sharper. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t wake her, just watches the rise and fall of her breathing as if counting it.
“How long has she been this tired?” he asks casually.
I answer without thinking. “Since the hangar.”
“And before that?”
I hesitate. “Perhaps. I’ve been busy, but she does nap, and she’s often asleep when I get home.
” I don’t mention that I know that because I’ve sought her out at late hours, tempted to taste her again, to teach her things she can’t imagine.
But she has been exhausted lately. “Could she be sick? She runs warm, and has been that way for a while now, and she falls asleep easily.”
“Any nausea?” His tone stays light and conversational. It’s as if we are discussing my blood pressure or the state of my stitches.
“Yes,” I say, then frown. “She’s been eating light lately. Her stomach is upset easily, mostly pasta…”
Michael hums. “And her cycle?”
The question lands wrong. I feel it immediately: a hairline fracture opening in the center of my chest. “That is not information I track. Or that you need to know.”
“No,” he agrees mildly. “But you’d notice if she mentioned it.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The room feels smaller, the air heavier.
She’s in my room, splayed across my body, but we don’t have those kinds of conversations.
That kind of intimacy doesn’t exist between us.
I’m trying to ignore the ache in my chest and the way I want that with her.
I want to know these small, intimate parts of her life.
Michael stands and steps closer, lowering his voice even though she is asleep. “I’m not diagnosing. I’m observing. Exhaustion. Heat. Nausea. Emotional volatility.” His eyes flick to mine. “And the timing is…possible. I was told that she’s been here for a few months.”
My jaw tightens. Has he been asking questions? And who in my household is giving up these answers so readily?
“She has. We had an agreement. She’s a target, and there are… conditions to her staying here. Rules.”
The words come out more defensively than I want them to.
Michael stares me down with a frank, clinical expression. “We’ve known each other long enough that I’m aware you don’t often live by rules, Mr. Baranov. Not many mob leaders get involved in the day-to-day dirty work. Is it possible that some rules were broken when Miss Demsky came to live here?”
Cold slides through me first, clean and precise. The same sensation I feel just before a kill, when logic sets in.
Then heat follows, violent and disorienting, rushing through my blood until my pulse thunders in my ears.
“You think she’s…”
Pregnant.
Michael inclines his head, just enough to tell me all I need to know. The word does not belong here. It does not fit in my life, in my plans, in the careful violence and control I’ve built. And yet Aly sleeps on my chest as if I’ve already given it up for her, already burned it to the ground.
Have I?
“If you are wrong,” I say quietly, “you will never mention this again.”
Michael nods. “Of course.”
“And if you are right?”
His mouth tightens. “That’s up to you, but she’ll need care.”
Liev’s face flashes in my mind, the way his jaw clenches when he is angry, the way his hands curl when he is deciding whether to forgive or kill.
He will not forgive this. Not me. Not this. He will see it as a theft; a betrayal layered on top of a thousand others. And he will come for me with nothing held back.
I look down at Aly, at the soft curve of her cheek pressed against my skin, at the faint line between her brows that appears even in sleep. The thought that she could be carrying something fragile and irrevocable because of me is terrifying in a way no gun has ever been.
Michael straightens. “I recommend discretion. Observation. And rest. If you’re brave enough, suggest a test. I can get one and leave it here for you, if she’s willing.”
I almost laugh. But the thought of discussing this with Alyona, bringing up the possibility and finding out if it’s real…
Aly exhales, slow and warm, and I make a decision without speaking it aloud. Whatever this becomes, whatever it costs, I will not let it be taken from me. Not by Hinto, not by fate, and not even by Liev.
This is not something I am willing to let go.