Chapter 36 Nikolai
NIKOLAI
The voices of my captains blend into meaningless noise, a dull roar that barely penetrates the calculations running through my mind.
I stand at the head of the table in The Golden Lion's private room, my hands braced against the polished mahogany, and watch their eyes slide toward me with questions they're too smart to voice directly.
They're discussing territory disputes. Supply routes. The usual business that keeps our organization running. But I can feel the weight of their unspoken doubts pressing against my skin like a physical force.
Nods around the table. Murmurs of approval. But their gazes keep flickering to me, measuring, assessing, questioning.
How can the Pakhan, who survived three bullets to the chest and abdomen, who was told by multiple doctors that fathering children was impossible, suddenly have a woman pregnant?
The math doesn't add up in their minds. I can see it in the way they exchange glances when they think I'm not looking, in the careful neutrality of their expressions when they offer congratulations that sound hollow.
"Pakhan?" Viktor's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Your thoughts on the northern territory?"
I force myself to focus, to project the cold authority that keeps them in line. "Proceed as discussed. Keep me informed of any complications."
More nods. More careful agreement. But the doubt remains, festering like an infected wound.
The meeting drags on for another hour, each minute feeling like an eternity. When I finally dismiss them, they file out with murmured goodnights and promises to follow up on various matters. All except Cyril.
My second-in-command lingers by the window, his jagged scar running from temple to jaw standing out in sharp relief. He doesn't speak, just waits with the patience of someone who's known me long enough to understand when silence is required.
The door closes behind the last captain, and I pour myself a vodka with hands that want to shake but don't. Can't. The Pakhan doesn't show weakness, even in private.
"Say it." I drain the glass in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to ease the tension coiling through my shoulders. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it."
Cyril turns from the window, his gray eyes holding mine with the brutal honesty of a man who's earned the right to speak truth to power. "They're questioning whether the child is yours."
The words land like bullets, precise and devastating. I set down the glass before I can throw it. "I know."
"A paternity test would silence them." His voice remains carefully neutral, but I hear the logic beneath. "Would restore confidence in your leadership. Would prove what you already know."
"Would it?" I pour another vodka, my jaw tight enough to crack teeth. "Or would it prove that I don't trust the woman carrying my child? That I need scientific evidence to believe what I feel in my bones?"
"Feelings don't matter in the Bratva." Cyril moves closer, his posture deceptively casual. "Facts do. Proof does. And right now, your captains need proof that you haven't been compromised by sentiment."
The word tastes like poison on my tongue. Sentiment. As if what I feel for Aria can be reduced to something so simple, so dismissive. As if the way my chest constricts when I look at her is just weakness rather than something I don't have a name for.
"The watch data shows conception occurred on the island," I say, but even I can hear the defensiveness in my voice.
"The watch data shows she's pregnant. It doesn't prove paternity." Cyril's expression doesn't change, but I see the concern lurking beneath his clinical assessment. "She could have been pregnant before the yacht party. Before the storm. Before you ever touched her."
My hands curl into fists against the table's edge.
The possibility has been circling in my mind like a vulture since I first saw that data, a thought I've been refusing to examine too closely because acknowledging it means admitting I might be wrong.
That I might be claiming another man's child out of desperate hope.
"You think she was sleeping with someone else." The accusation comes out flat, dangerous.
"I think we don't know her history. I think three weeks is a very convenient timeline." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I think demanding proof protects you. Protects the organization. Protects the child if it is yours."
The logic is sound. Cold and brutal, but sound. A simple test would answer every question, silence the whispers, and restore my captain's confidence. It's what a Pakhan would do. What I should do.
"She'll never forgive me if I ask for proof," I say quietly.
"Perhaps." Cyril's gray eyes hold mine with uncomfortable honesty. "But if you don't and the child isn't yours, your enemies will use that weakness to destroy everything you've built."
The truth of his words settles over me like a weight. I think of Matvey's text, the venom in those words. I look forward to meeting the child. If it's yours. My rival already senses the doubt, already sees the vulnerability he can exploit.
"Find out if she was seeing anyone before the yacht party," I hear myself say. "Discreetly. I want to know her history."
Cyril nods once, sharp and final, then moves toward the door. He pauses with his hand on the frame. "And if she was?"
The question hangs in the air between us, weighted with implications we both understand. If Aria was with someone else, if there's even a possibility the child isn't mine, then everything changes. The engagement. The protection. The future I've been building in my mind.
"Then I'll deal with it." The words come out cold, absolute.
But as Cyril leaves and I'm alone with my vodka and my doubts, I know I'm lying to myself.
If that child isn't mine, if Aria has been playing me from the beginning, it won't just destroy my reputation.
It will destroy something fundamental in me that I didn't know still existed until she jumped into that storm-tossed ocean.
I need to see her. Need to look into those dark eyes and search for deception I pray I won't find.
Aria's bathroom is thick with steam when I enter her bedroom an hour later, the air heavy and warm against my skin.
Aria is submerged in the massive tub, her dark hair piled on her head in a messy knot, her skin flushed pink from the heat.
The sight of her makes my breath catch, makes my body respond with an urgency that has nothing to do with strategy or doubt.
She's beautiful. The curve of her breasts just visible above the water, the elegant line of her neck, the way her eyes flutter open as she senses my presence. Exhaustion is etched into her features, shadows beneath her eyes that speak to sleepless nights and stress I've caused.
The tabloids. Maya's betrayal. The forced engagement. I'm asking too much of her already.
"Nikolai." My name on her lips sounds wary, guarded, and something in my chest cracks at the distance in her voice.
I kneel beside the tub, my hand trailing through the water until I find her thigh beneath the surface. Her skin is slick and warm, and the touch ignites electricity between us that makes her breath hitch. She doesn't pull away, doesn't tell me to leave, and I take that as permission.
I strip off my clothes with desperate efficiency, my eyes never leaving hers.
The water sloshes over the marble floor as I climb into the tub, the heat enveloping me as I pull her onto my lap.
She comes willingly, her body fitting against mine like she was designed for this purpose, and I bury my face against her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin.
My cock is already hard, pressing against her, and when she shifts her hips, the friction makes us both groan. I capture her mouth with mine, the kiss deep and consuming, tasting the uncertainty on her lips mixed with desire that mirrors my own.
"Touch me," she whispers against my mouth, and the breathless quality of her voice makes heat pool low in my stomach.
My hand slides between us, finding the slick heat of her, and she gasps as my fingers circle the sensitive bundle of nerves.
She's already wet, already ready, and the knowledge makes possessive satisfaction surge through my chest. Her body responds to me like this, even when her mind is building walls.
"Nikolai." My name becomes a plea as I work her with my fingers, feeling her inner muscles flutter around me. "Please."
I lift her slightly, positioning myself at her entrance, and our eyes lock as I lower her onto my cock. The tight heat of her body makes my vision blur at the edges, makes every thought except this moment, this woman, evaporate like steam.
She moves slowly at first, her hips rolling in a rhythm that's both torture and perfection.
The water laps against the sides of the tub, creating waves that mirror the building pressure between us.
My hands grip her waist, guiding her movements, and I watch her face as pleasure transforms her features.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur, my accent thickening with desire. "So perfect."
Her answer is to increase her pace, her nails digging into my shoulders as she rides me with increasing urgency.
I feel her body tightening around me, her inner muscles clenching in a rhythm that tells me she's close.
My thumb finds her clit again, circling with the pressure I've learned she needs, and she shatters with a cry that echoes off the marble walls.
The sensation of her coming around me triggers my own release. I thrust up hard, burying myself deep as pleasure crashes through me with enough force to make my arms shake. Her name tears from my throat, raw and desperate, and I feel her body milk every last pulse from mine.
Afterward, she rests her head on my shoulder, her breathing gradually evening out. My fingers trace lazy patterns along her spine, and I feel the rapid hammer of her heart against my chest. This is peace. This is what I've been searching for without knowing it existed.
But I know what I must do. The words form in my mind, heavy and inevitable.
"Aria." My voice comes out rougher than intended, the accent thick with emotions I can't suppress. "I need you to take a paternity test."
Her body goes rigid against mine. She lifts her head slowly, and I watch her face shatter with betrayal so profound, it steals the breath from my lungs.