Chapter 22
EVA
Idon’t know the first thing about being pregnant, and I’m too afraid to even type the symptoms into my computer or my phone. I sure as hell am not telling Evgeny yet.
Hell, I’m not ready to think about it myself. I spend most of my time pretending nothing is wrong, a trick I learned from my father. Ignore the problem and it’ll go away.
But I can’t help looking in the mirror, searching my body for any outward sign of the inward change. I wonder if my belly is a little bigger or if it’s just bloat. If my math is right, I’m about eight weeks along, but I don’t even know when I’m supposed to start showing.
I should probably go to the doctor to confirm the pregnancy and whatever else I have to do. But I can’t bring myself to do it. One, because Evgeny will know something’s up, and two, because I can’t face that reality yet.
I still have no idea what to do about any of this.
At least my nausea hasn’t made me throw up again. It’s a blessing that my morning sickness, which hits smack in the middle of the afternoon, is mild enough that I can usually pretend nothing is wrong.
Evgeny hasn’t caught on. Dmitri hasn’t either, and neither has Vasya.
I’m pretty sure Alona knows something’s up, especially since I’m eating less and certain things I’ve always loved make me sick just to think about. The woman has practically been force-feeding me porridge and giving me tea from an unlabeled box that tastes vaguely sweet.
Should I be drinking it without knowing what’s in it? Probably not. But I also have no idea what to stay away from. I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to be on some kind of vitamins, but I can’t get them or take them without raising suspicion from someone in the house.
What an absolute mess.
“Eva? You ready to go?” Dmitri’s voice carries from the other side of my door.
“Coming,” I call back, pulling a T-shirt over the loose linen shorts from the odd assortment Dmitri bought me. I only wish it was something a little thicker to hide anything someone might notice, but it’s too hot. Summer might have faded, but the Santa Anas are out in full force.
Today is shopping day. The last time I bought a fancy dress was for my high school prom, and that one came from the thrift stores where all the rich people donated their old clothes.
Dmitri takes me to an actual boutique, hands me Evgeny’s black card, and tells me to go crazy. It’s the kind of place where they give you champagne to sip while the sales associate brings in dress after dress for you to try on.
At first I’m overwhelmed. No one has ever paid this much attention to me or treated me like I’m royalty.
But after a while I find the fun, trying on gowns I’ve only ever seen on magazine covers or on the perfect bodies of models parading down a runway.
The sales associate is cheerful and a total cheerleader.
I don’t know whether she means it or does it to get a sale, but it feels genuine enough.
Soon we’re both joking about the dresses that look less than perfect on me, including an enormous ball gown that makes me look like a pink cupcake.
Even Dmitri joins in after a while, tossing out sarcastic comments that have the sales associate and me giggling.
The laughter and jokes stop when I find the dress.
Crimson in a way that sets off my eyes and skin and makes them glow, with swaths of fabric draped over my shoulders that become a deep V dropping nearly to the wide strip of cloth around my waist. The full skirt blooms into elegant drapes and folds, making me seem taller. Regal, even.
“That’s it,” the sales associate says, her reflection in the mirror beaming at me.
“It is,” I say, my voice thin, my gaze pinned to my reflection. My hand trails over my collarbone, the fabric soft under my fingers. I almost don’t recognize the woman in the mirror.
“She’ll take it,” Dmitri says, and he rises from his chair. Then he winks at my reflection. “That’s going to knock his socks off.”
I flush because I pictured that exact reaction the moment I put the gown on.
“She needs shoes,” Dmitri tells the sales associate, and she hurries from the room to find a matching pair.
I’m still staring at my reflection when someone else enters the fitting room. Vasya. The air in the room drops several degrees, and Dmitri glares at the newcomer.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Vasya returns the glare. “Evgeny wants you.”
Dmitri takes his phone out to check for missed calls or messages. From the look on his face, there are none. “No, he doesn’t.”
“Would I be here for any other reason?” Vasya’s hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders bent like a teenager’s.
At that moment, he reminds me a lot of Jordan, that same “don’t care” attitude, the same sullen look, the same snarky answers in the same sardonic tone.
“He told me to tell you. You know how he is.” Vasya shrugs as though that answers the question.
And I suppose it does. We all know Evgeny and his seemingly odd requests, Dmitri and Vasya even better than I do.
Dmitri glares at Vasya for a heartbeat, indecision flickering, then growls loud enough to startle the sales associate, who’s just come back into the room with several boxes.
“Fine. But I’ll be checking up on you. Take care of her.” Dmitri nods toward me.
Vasya holds up his hand flippantly. “Scout’s honor.”
“That’s three fingers, idiot,” Dmitri growls as he pushes past the other man. “And you were never a Boy Scout.”
I almost call Dmitri back and say something about wanting to leave with him instead, but I bite back my words when Vasya’s gaze falls on me.
Since that day in the car, the memory of his temper has cooled whatever warmth I felt for him. I can’t explain why his anger frightens me so much more than Evgeny’s, when I’ve seen far more of the latter. But the chill it gave me hasn’t dissipated.
“Ready for shoes?” the sales associate asks, skirting Vasya with a curious look.
“Yeah, sure.”
I try to focus on the shoes and even the clutch the woman brought to go with the dress. Both are designer and worth more than the monthly mortgage payment on my family’s house.
Evgeny’s black card pays for it all. I feel sick handing it to the sales associate, and it isn’t just the morning sickness.
As a final tip, the woman steers me to a jewelry store to find earrings to match the dress. The idea of a black card and an insanely expensive jewelry boutique is an opportunity I can’t pass up.
Oddly enough, Vasya is quiet as we go to the jewelry store. No laughter, no smirks, no off-color jokes. Instead, we walk in silence as cars worth a hundred grand or more pass us in the street, the palm trees on the side of the road swaying in the wind.
“Are you okay?” I finally can’t resist asking as I browse the cases and their sparkling treasures.
“Yeah. Fine.” Short. Vasya’s eyes are on a necklace glittering with diamonds.
I finally find a pair of earrings, and the manager is boxing them up when Vasya points to the necklace he’s been staring at.
“I want to see that.”
Vasya wears a necklace himself, a small Eastern Orthodox cross with three crossed bars. But the one he’s pointing at is dainty, a star with long points and diamonds across the rays.
The manager takes the necklace from the case, and Vasya fingers the pendant before removing it from its velvet display.
“My mom had a necklace kind of like this,” he says, a small smile curling one corner of his mouth.
The manager returns to boxing the earrings I bought. With the chain slipping over Vasya’s long fingers, he moves behind me and drapes the necklace over my head before I know what’s happening.
“I want to see what it looks like on you.”
His words slither across the back of my neck, raising the hairs there, and I freeze as the cool chain settles on my warm skin.
Vasya’s blue eyes settle on my reflection, taking in the necklace before rising to meet my gaze.
“It looks good on you,” he says, and I have no idea what to say, with every word stuck in my throat.
Before I can think, Vasya’s head dips in the mirror, and I feel his lips brush the back of my neck, soft and sensuous. One kiss, then two, then a third, before I can take a breath around my wildly pounding heart and tight throat.
The breath knocks me out of my shock, and I step away, reaching up to unclasp the necklace. What the hell was he doing?
“I’m ready to go home,” I tell him, holding the necklace out.
Vasya stares at me for a few more breaths, his expression unreadable, the blue in his eyes icy, before he takes it from me.
Nausea roils in the silence of the car on the way back to the estate. My heart is still pounding, making my fingertips tingle. I have no idea what to think or say, and I only give short answers when Vasya starts joking around with me as if nothing at all happened in the jewelry store.
I flee to the safety of my room when we return home, make some excuse about a headache, and throw up for the first time since the morning sickness started.
But it’s less about the baby and more about whatever happened with Vasya, about the chill I feel when I think of him and the disturbing emotions I saw in his eyes when he was staring at me.
I know I can’t tell Evgeny. The last thing he needs right now is me telling him his oldest friend made a move on me. I can’t cause trouble or a rift when Evgeny needs Vasya more than ever to help him deal with Tsepov. No. I have to keep it to myself for now.
I just have to make sure it doesn’t happen again.