22. Roman
ROMAN
The drive back to the penthouse is silent.
I keep my arm around Vera, feeling the slight tremble of her body against mine. She’s exhausted. I can see it in the pallor of her skin and the shadows beneath her eyes. The events of the evening have taken their toll, and she’s running on nothing but adrenaline and stubbornness.
When we reach the building, Artyom pulls into the underground garage and kills the engine. I help Vera out of the car, keeping my hand on the small of her back as we walk to the elevator.
Oksana must have gone home hours ago, and the security team is recovering in the hospital. Konstantin was kind enough not to kill them, but they won’t be up and about any time soon.
The only light comes from the city outside, casting long shadows across the floor.
Vera stands in the middle of the living room with her arms wrapped around herself, looking lost. The wedding dress hangs off her frame, the elaborate beading and lace seeming absurd in the quiet of the penthouse.
She looks beautiful, and utterly destroyed.
“You need to sleep,” I say.
She nods, but doesn’t move. Her eyes are distant, as if she’s still standing at that altar.
“Vera.” I step closer, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at me. “You’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.”
“I know.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I just... I can’t believe that happened.” She looks at me. “Are we actually married?”
“We are.” I brush a strand of hair back from her face. “As of tonight, you’re my wife. Tomorrow, we’ll take care of the paperwork and make it legal.”
She shivers at the word, and I can’t tell if it’s from cold or something else.
“You’re staying in my room tonight,” I say. It’s not a question.
She holds my gaze. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not tonight.”
She hesitates for a moment, then nods.
I lead her down the hallway to my bedroom, pushing open the door and guiding her inside. The room is dark, but I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I move to the closet and pull out one of my t-shirts, handing it to her without a word.
She takes it and disappears into the bathroom. I hear the water running, followed by the sounds of her getting changed.
I use the time to strip off the priest’s robes and change into something more comfortable.
When she emerges, my t-shirt hangs past her thighs, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.
“Roman,” she says, and her voice has a different quality now. Husky.
I cross the room in three strides and pull her into my arms. My mouth finds hers, kissing her with all the pent-up emotion of the evening. She responds in kind, pulling me closer.
I walk her backward toward the bed. My hand finds its way under the hem of the t-shirt, finding bare skin. She gasps against my mouth and I swallow the sound.
We fall onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and heated breath. I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the swell of her breast above the neckline. She makes a sound that goes straight to my groin, her hands tangling in my hair.
“Roman,” she breathes again, and this time her voice is thick with desire. “Please.”
I want to give her everything she’s asking for. I need to make her forget the hours before I reached her.
Except I feel the slight tremor in her hands, so I pull back.
“Don’t stop.”
“You’re exhausted.” I brush a kiss across her forehead. “You’ve been through hell tonight. You need to rest.”
“I need you.” Her voice is stubborn, but there’s a pleading quality to it too. “Please. I want to feel something other than fear.”
I know that need. I’ve felt it myself, more times than I can count; but I also know that she’s running on empty. I won’t take advantage of that, no matter how much I want her.
“Tomorrow,” I say, settling beside her and pulling her against my chest. “Right now, you need to sleep.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but a yawn escapes instead. Her eyes flutter closed, and I can feel her body relaxing against mine. “Fine,” she mutters, her voice already thick with sleep. “You owe me.”
I smile against her hair. “I’ll pay up. I promise.”
She makes a sound that might be a laugh, and then she’s asleep.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake before Vera, my internal clock pulling me from sleep at the usual time despite the late night. She’s still curled against my chest, lips slightly parted. Cute.
I take a moment just to look at her. I trace the lines of her face with my eyes before slipping out of bed and heading for the kitchen.
Oksana arrives an hour later, as she always does. She takes one look at my face and doesn’t ask questions, just sets about preparing breakfast with her usual efficiency. She doesn’t comment on yesterday, and I can’t tell if it’s practicality or a genuine desire not to know the details.
Vera emerges from the bedroom a little while after that, still wearing my shirt. She looks better than she did last night; some of the color has returned to her cheeks, and the shadows under her eyes aren’t quite as dark.
I watch her as she settles at the kitchen counter, my eyes tracking her movements with the same attention I’d give a potential threat. She’s moving slowly, like she’s trying not to jar something. I pour her a cup of coffee and set it in front of her. She pushes it away without taking a sip.
“You don’t want your coffee?” I ask.
She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. “My stomach is a little off. I think it’s the stress from yesterday.”
I frown. Vera always drinks her coffee. It’s one of the few things I can count on her doing every morning without fail.
I watch her as she picks at her breakfast, barely eating anything. After ten minutes she excuses herself to the bathroom. She returns looking even paler than yesterday.
It takes her a few minutes to realize I’m watching.
She drops her hand quickly, a flash of something, guilt or fear, crossing her features before she can hide it.
My instincts kick into high alert. Something is going on. Something she’s not telling me.
I pull out my phone and send a text to Dr. Morozov, asking for an emergency appointment. Then I turn to Vera.
“Get dressed,” I say. “We’re going out.”
She looks at me, confused. “Where?”
“To see a doctor.”
Her face goes white. “What, why?”
“Because something is wrong.” I keep my voice calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s not like you to forgo coffee, Vera. I’m not stupid.”
“I’m not ill.”
“Vera.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “You’re being weird. I’ve seen women do the same thing before.”
She stares at me, and I can see the moment she realizes she’s been caught. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, but her voice is thin.
I don’t push it. Whatever she’s hiding, we’ll find out soon enough.
“Get dressed,” I say again. “We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but something in my face must stop her. She sighs, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Fine,” she mutters. “But I’m telling you, there’s nothing wrong with me.”
Seconds later, she disappears into the bedroom.
Oksana appears at my elbow, her face tight with concern. “What’s going on?”
“I’m taking her to the doctor.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don’t know.” I keep my voice low, in case Vera can hear us through the door. “She’s been off for days.”
Oksana’s expression shifts. She looks at me, then at the closed bedroom door. For a second, I get the impression Oksana knows more than she’s letting on.
“Do you think it’s the stress?”
I hold up a hand, cutting her off. “I don’t think anything. That’s what the doctor is for.”
The bedroom door opens, and Vera emerges. She’s changed into a simple flower print dress with her hair pulled back. I can see the tension in her shoulders as she wanders over.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, not meeting my eyes.
I place my hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the door.
The doctor’s office is in a private clinic on the north side of the city.
I’ve been using Dr. Morozov for years. He’s discreet, and doesn’t ask questions I don’t want to answer. He’s also one of the few people I trust with something this important.
Vera sits on the examination table, her hands clasped in her lap. She hasn’t spoken since we left the penthouse, and I can see the tension radiating off her in waves. I stand beside her, my hand on her shoulder.
Dr. Morozov is efficient. He takes her vitals and asks about her symptoms. Vera answers in monosyllables, her voice flat like she’s trying to distance herself from what’s happening.
“Your blood pressure is a little low,” he says, studying the numbers. “Your pulse is elevated. Have you been experiencing any dizziness or nausea?”
Vera nods, her eyes downcast. “Some nausea. In the mornings, mostly.”
“What about fatigue?”
Another nod.
Dr. Morozov makes another note, then sets down his tablet and looks at her. “I’d like to run some tests, if that’s alright. Bloodwork, urine sample, the usual. It will help me get a better picture of what’s going on. I’ll also do a pregnancy test, just to rule it out.”
Pregnancy test. That’s what I was hoping he’d say.
Vera hesitates, and I can see the conflict in her face. She doesn’t want to be here, but she nods anyway. “Okay.”
The nurse comes in to draw blood and collect the sample, and then we’re left alone to wait. Vera is quiet, her eyes fixed on some point on the wall the entire time.
Dr. Morozov returns twenty minutes later, his expression unreadable. He’s holding his tablet, and he keeps glancing down at it like he’s not sure what to say.
“Mrs. Volkonsky,” he says, and his voice is careful, measured. “The results of your tests have come back.”
Vera straightens, her hands clenching in her lap. “And?”
Dr. Morozov takes a breath. “You’re pregnant.”
The words hang in the air.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
Pregnant. I’d suspected as much, but hearing it said out loud is an entirely different thing.
“How far along?” I ask, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears.
Dr. Morozov checks his tablet. “Based on the hormone levels, approximately five weeks.”
It lines up too perfectly.
My hand moves without conscious thought, finding Vera’s stomach and resting there. Although her stomach is flat, I know it won’t be forever.
She looks at me, her eyes wide with something I can’t quite identify.
“She was told she couldn’t have children,” I say, my voice rough.
Dr. Morozov hesitates. “Based on her results, there’s no physical reason she couldn’t conceive. Going by her medical history, her reproductive system appears healthy and functional.”
Vera winces. “Are you sure?”
“I am,” Dr. Morozov says carefully. “I can only tell you what the tests show, and they show that you’re pregnant with no apparent complications.”
Dmitri spent years convincing Vera she couldn’t have children, knowing damn well that wasn’t true. I know what he was crushing into her food and drinks, making sure she never got pregnant. And all that time, he let her believe there was something wrong with her.
“Roman,” she says, and her voice is small. “Say something.”
“We’re having a baby,” I mutter. “You and me. We’re having a baby.”
She clings to me, her tears soaking into my shirt. I tuck hair from her face and kiss the corner of her lips while Vera squeezes her eyes shut.
Dr. Morozov clears his throat, reminding us that we’re not alone. “I’ll want to see you again in a few weeks for a follow-up ultrasound and to discuss prenatal care. In the meantime, I’ll send over some recommendations for diet and supplements.”
Vera nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Thank you, Doctor.”
He inclines his head and slips out of the room, leaving us alone.
I help Vera down from the examination table, my hands gentle on her waist. She’s still shaky, so I keep my arm around her as we walk to the car.
When we reach the penthouse, I lead her inside and settle her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs. Then I sit down beside her, my hand finding her stomach again.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She looks at me, her eyes still red from crying. “I don’t know what to feel.”
“You can feel whatever you want to feel,” I say. “I want you to know something.”
She waits, her eyes on mine.
“You’re mine, and so is this baby. Nobody will touch either of you so long as I’m alive.”