Chapter 9 Vera
Vera
Six Months Later…
"Here's your daughter."
The doctor's words hang in the air. On the ultrasound screen, a tiny profile appears in grainy black and white—a perfect button nose, a small chin. I stare at it, trying to process what I'm seeing.
Beside me, Pyotr goes completely still. His hand tightens around mine until my fingers ache.
"Daughter?" His voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper.
"Yes." The doctor smiles, adjusting the wand on my gel-covered belly. She points to the screen with her free hand. "Healthy girl. Perfect size for twenty-four weeks. Strong heartbeat—hear that?"
The rhythmic whoosh-whoosh fills the small room.
I glance at Pyotr. He's staring at the screen like it holds the secrets of the universe, jaw tight, eyes burning with something fierce and overwhelming. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard.
"Are you disappointed?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it. "I know you wanted a son—"
His head whips toward me so fast I flinch. "Disappointed?"
He releases my hand only to cup my face with both of his, fingers sliding into my hair. His ice-blue eyes are wet—actual tears gathering at the corners.
"You're giving me a daughter. A perfect, healthy daughter." His voice cracks on the words. "How could I possibly be disappointed?"
"But you always said—"
"I don't care what I said." He kisses me, hard and claiming, not caring that the doctor is still in the room. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "She's ours. That's what matters."
The doctor clears her throat delicately. "I'll just... go update the charts. Give you two a moment."
The door clicks shut behind her.
Pyotr turns back to the frozen image on the screen, his hand sliding from my face to my very visible bump. His palm spreads wide, possessive, like he's trying to cover as much of our daughter as possible.
"A daughter." He says it like he's tasting the word, testing it. "My daughter."
"Our daughter," I correct softly.
"Katya." The smile that breaks across his face is genuine, open, unguarded. "Katya Maksimova."
I cover his hand with mine on my stomach. "She's not even born yet and you're already—"
"Already planning how I'll terrify every boy who looks at her." His other hand joins the first on my belly, both of them spanning the swell. "My little girl."
***
In the car afterward, he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. Silent. Processing what we just learned.
I watch the city slide past the window, winter gray and cold. His thumb strokes absently over the fabric of my maternity jeans—a unconscious gesture of possession that's become as natural as breathing for him.
"Talk to me," I say finally.
He doesn't answer right away. Just pulls into an empty parking lot and kills the engine. Then he turns to face me, eyes intense.
"I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"She's going to be beautiful like you." His hand moves from my thigh to my belly, spreading wide. "And some day, some boy is going to look at her the way I look at you. And I'm going to have to not kill him."
I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Among other things." His other hand joins the first, both palms warm through my shirt. "She's going to have you wrapped around her finger. And me. We're going to spoil her completely."
"You're already planning to spoil her and she's not even born."
"Yes." No apology in his voice. Just certainty. "She's mine. Both of you are mine."
***
Back at the estate, I stand in our bedroom staring at my closet. Dimitri and Anya are coming for dinner in an hour and I have nothing to wear that doesn't make me look like I swallowed a basketball.
I pull out a fitted black dress—one of the maternity ones Pyotr insisted on buying. The fabric is soft, expensive, designed to drape over pregnant curves rather than hide them.
In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Six months ago I was a college student. Now I'm Mrs. Maksimova, heavily pregnant, preparing to host dinner for the Pakhan.
My hands smooth over the swell of my belly, feeling Katya shift and roll inside me.
"Beautiful."
I don't jump this time when he appears. His reflection materializes behind mine, still in his dress shirt and slacks from the doctor's appointment. He moves close, hands settling on my waist before sliding up to cup my swollen breasts.
"I'm huge," I say, but there's less protest in my voice than there used to be.
"You're carrying my daughter." His hands move back down to cradle my bump, and I feel him harden against my lower back. "Nothing more beautiful exists."
His lips find my neck, teeth grazing the spot that always makes me shiver.
The doorbell chimes through the house.
"They're early," I mutter.
He straightens, adjusts himself with zero shame, then guides me toward the stairs with one hand possessive at the small of my back.
Dimitri and Anya arrive with a bottle of wine and warm embraces. Dimitri is imposing as always—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of authority that makes men twice his size step aside. But his eyes are kind when he takes my hand gently, respectfully.
"You're glowing," he observes.
"She's pregnant," Pyotr says, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.
"We can see that." Anya pulls me into a careful hug, mindful of my belly. She smells like expensive perfume and winter air. "How are you feeling?"
"Good. Tired." I glance at Pyotr, who's already moved to my side, hand finding my lower back. "He's... attentive."
"Attentive." Anya's lips quirk. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Dinner is laid out in the formal dining room—the long table set with china and crystal, candles flickering. The housekeeper outdid herself: roasted chicken, vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the oven.
Pyotr pulls out my chair, waits until I'm settled before taking his own seat.
Throughout the meal, he's exactly as I described—cutting my chicken into smaller pieces without being asked, refilling my water glass, his hand constantly returning to rest on my thigh under the table. Monitoring. Controlling.
"You're hovering," I tell him quietly.
"I'm being attentive." He doesn't even have the grace to look apologetic. "You're six months pregnant. You need proper nutrition. I'm making sure you get it."
I roll my eyes but don't argue. We both know fighting him on this is pointless.
Dimitri and Pyotr talk business—shipments, territories, problems I don't fully understand and don't particularly want to. I catch Anya's eye across the table and she gives me a small, knowing smile.
When the plates are cleared, Anya follows me to the kitchen while I make coffee.
The kitchen is warm from the stove, smelling of coffee and the lingering scent of roasted chicken. I measure grounds into the French press while Anya leans against the counter, watching me with those knowing eyes.
"You're happy," she says. Not a question.
"I am." I touch my belly automatically, feeling Katya's small movements. Like tiny bubbles popping under my skin. "Really happy."
"No regrets?"
I pour hot water over the coffee grounds, watch the steam rise. "He forced me. Claimed me. Took away every choice I had."
Anya doesn't flinch. Just waits.
"But I chose him back." I meet her eyes. "Somewhere along the way, I chose this."
She reaches out, touches my belly. Under her palm, Katya kicks—a solid thump that makes us both smile.
"It's a girl?"
"Yes. Katya."
"Beautiful name." She pulls her hand back. "He's going to be obsessive."
"He's already obsessive about everything. This won't be any different."
"It'll only get worse." She laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "But she'll have him wrapped around her tiny finger. You both will."
***
After they leave—hugs and promises to visit again soon—I find myself drawn to the nursery at the end of the hall.
Pyotr repainted it himself the day after we found out the gender.
Wouldn't let anyone else touch it. The walls are soft pink now, the furniture white and pristine.
A mobile hangs over the crib—tiny stars and moons that catch the lamplight.
The stuffed wolf he bought sits on the shelf, its gray fur impossibly soft.
Everything is ready. Waiting. Perfect.
"Still nesting?"
I turn to find him in the doorway, jacket and tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms.
"Can't help it." I adjust the wolf for probably the tenth time today, making sure it faces just right. "Everything has to be perfect for her."
He crosses the room, his hands settling on my belly from behind. The baby kicks immediately against his palms. She always does this, like she knows it's her daddy touching.
"She knows you," I say softly.
"Of course she does. I talk to her every night." His breath is warm against my ear. "Tell her how beautiful her mama is. How perfect she's going to be. How much I already love her."
I lean back into his solid warmth, his hands spanning my swollen belly. For a moment we just stand there in the pink-walled room, in the quiet, feeling our daughter move between us.
Then he's turning me around, lifting me despite my protests.
"I can walk!"
"You're carrying precious cargo." He carries me down the hall to our bedroom, shouldering the door open. The room is dim, just the bedside lamp casting warm light across the rumpled sheets.
He lays me down carefully on the bed, like I'm made of glass. His hands are already working my dress up and over my head, followed by the maternity bra that never quite fits right, the underwear that's supposed to be comfortable but isn't.
"Pyotr, I'm huge and tired."
"Perfect." His voice is rough as he strips off his own clothes, revealing all that tattooed skin I've memorized. The wolf on his throat. The stars across his chest. The cathedral spanning his back. "So fucking perfect like this."
He positions us on our sides, him behind me, both of us facing the mirror across from the bed. One of his hands slides beneath my head, the other splays possessively across my swollen belly.
When he pushes inside, it's slow. Careful. The angle is different now with my belly between us, but he knows exactly how to make it work. He's spent six months learning my pregnant body, every change, every sensitivity.
"How does that feel?" His breath is warm against my neck.
"Good." I arch back into him slightly. "Really good."
"Tell me if anything hurts."
"It won't." I reach back to touch his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble. "I trust you."
His breath catches, the arm beneath my head tightening. "Say that again."
"I trust you. Completely."
"I love you." The words are soft against my skin as he moves in long, slow strokes. His hand never leaves my belly, feeling every shift and movement. "So much, malyshka."
"I love you too."
We move together in the lamplight, slow and intimate. When I come, it's gentle—a soft wave rather than a crashing storm. My body clenches around him, and I feel him follow moments later, groaning my name against my neck.
After, he holds me. Both our hands rest on my stomach where Katya is doing what feels like gymnastics.
"Are you happy?" he asks quietly. "Really happy?"
"Yes."
"Even though I forced you? Even though I gave you no choice?"
"You did force me." I lace my fingers through his on my belly. "But I fell in love with you anyway. Chose you anyway."
"Good." He presses closer, his arm tightening around me. "Because you're never leaving."
"I know." And I do. "I don't want to."
Katya delivers a particularly strong kick that makes us both feel it.
"She's going to be just like you," I murmur, already half-asleep.
"God help her." His voice is warm with affection. "She'll have me as a father."
"And she'll be perfect."
"Just like her mother."
I drift off with his muscular body curved protectively around mine, his hand on our daughter, safe and warm and his.
In the darkness, just before sleep takes me, I hear him whisper to my belly.
"I love you, little Katya. Already so much. You and your mama—you're everything."
THE END