Chapter 24
Willow
When it was over, he fell asleep.
His breathing went from rough and heavy to steady, settling into an even rhythm.
I lay on my side with my back to him and listened to it rise and fall in the dark.
A nightlight leaked through the crack under the door, painting a thin, pale-gold line across the floor.
He didn't hold me. Didn't touch me.
He stayed on the other side of the bed, a small stretch of space between us.
I stared at that line of light. My body still carried him—finger marks on my wrist, the spot at my waist where he'd grabbed me, the place on my shoulder where he'd bitten—heat simmering under my skin like the last trace of a fire that hadn't gone out.
But my stomach felt cold.
I pressed a hand to my lower belly, palm flat over my T-shirt, willing warmth into myself.
My baby was inside me, growing slowly.
That faint warmth was the only thing that comforted me right then.
I stroked my belly. It was still flat, no curve at all, but I knew a tiny life had taken root there.
He was innocent. He didn't deserve to be the casualty of some filthy adult power game. He didn't deserve to be branded before he was even born—traitor's kid, bastard.
My chest tightened, sour and swollen, the sting crawling up behind my nose.
I bit down hard on my lip and didn't let a sound out.
How the hell had Artyom and I ended up here?
I thought about that stupid night at the bar. The way he'd held me in the shower and told me he'd dream about me. The way he'd stepped in front of me and torn into Tom. The way he'd just had me pinned to the door, kissing me until I couldn't breathe.
Those moments felt like honey-soaked needles—sweet enough to hurt.
I shouldn't have hoped for anything.
Artyom had crashed into my life like an accident.
He was too damn bright. He stood there, and every eye turned. Women like Lily always circled him—beautiful, slim, born into money.
They wore custom dresses that hugged every inch, stilettos clicking, and next to him they looked perfect. Like they belonged.
And me? I weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds. I wore the biggest size in the office. My inner thighs chafed raw when I walked. If I ate a little too much, my stomach puffed out. Even a slightly tight T-shirt made me hesitate for ten minutes.
If he'd been good to me, maybe it was just novelty.
He'd never had someone like me around—fat, forgettable, maybe even a little stupid, the kind of woman who'd mistaken him for an escort and paid him.
That kind of novelty didn't beat a living, breathing kid.
He was New York's Pakhan. The president of Sokolov Holdings. Half of Europe's underground order moved when he said so. He had more blood on his hands than I'd seen people in my life.
His world ran on profit and calculation. There was no room for accidents.
If he found out I was pregnant, he'd think I was trying to trap him with a baby. He'd lump me in with every woman who'd schemed her way into his bed.
He'd force me to get rid of it.
Tears hit the back of my hand again, out of nowhere.
No. Hell no.
This was my child. The first thing in twenty-six years that was completely, undeniably mine.
He was so small. So soft. I wouldn't let anyone hurt him. Not even Artyom.
I still had to find a way out.
Leave this city. Find somewhere no one knew my name. Have this baby, and the two of us would live quiet and steady. I could take any kind of hardship as long as I could raise him, as long as he didn't grow up under the same side-eyes and sneers I'd swallowed since I was little.
The more I thought, the clearer my head got. I started doing the math—how much I had in my accounts, how long it would last until I found work, what I needed to take, how to disappear without Artyom's people finding me.
I got so worked up I forgot who was lying next to me. The man who could blot out the sun with one hand.
My arm knocked into the glass on the nightstand.
It hit the floor and rolled half a turn before it stopped.
My whole body locked up. I held my breath and didn't move.
The next second, a warm, strong hand shot over and clamped around my wrist.
Before I could even process it, he yanked me back. The world tilted. And suddenly I was pressed against his chest.
He'd woken up at some point. His eyes were bright as hell in the dim light, fixed on me like a predator on prey.
"What are you thinking about? Why aren't you sleeping?"
Panic fluttered in my ribs. I couldn't look at his eyes, so I stared at the open collar of his pajama top.
"N-nothing. I just... don't sleep well in a new bed."
"A new bed?"
His brow lifted. Then his hand tightened, and I pitched forward. By the time I realized what had happened, I was straddling him.
I went rigid.
I weighed one hundred and fifty-five pounds.
That thought stabbed first. Heat rushed to my face. I tried to scoot off, palms on his chest, trying to stand. "I'm too heavy. I don't want to crush you."
"Don't move."
He held my waist, not letting me shift. His fingers sank into the soft of my sides, firm but controlled—enough to stop me, not enough to hurt.
He looked up at me. "So you only want to get used to my bed? Or do you want to get used to someone else's? Ethan's?"
I froze. I hadn't expected Ethan's name to come out of his mouth like that.
My heart jumped hard, and I shook my head fast. "No. Ethan and I are just friends. I don't think about him like that."
He stared straight at me. Something rolled through those dark gray eyes I couldn't read—ice-cold and burning at the same time. It made my skin crawl, and I tried to look away.
The more I dodged, the angrier he got.
I even heard his teeth grind. "Look at me."
His voice stayed low, packed with restrained rage. "Answer me. Do you like him?"
The question hit so wrong I almost laughed.
Ethan and I had just run into each other again. Since when did that mean I liked him?
He was just a friend from when I was a kid.
"I told you, we are just friends." I tugged at my wrist, but his grip didn't budge. I forced myself to stay calm. "I don't have feelings for him. Stop making shit up."
"Making shit up?"
He gave a cold little laugh that never reached his eyes. The air around us seemed to drop a few degrees.
He let go of my wrist, pulled his phone out like it had been waiting in his pocket, flicked his thumb a few times, then slapped it down on the coffee table in front of me.
The screen glowed, filled with photos.
Ethan in my kitchen making breakfast. Ethan driving me to the hospital.
Every shot was sharp. You could even see the confusion on my face.
I stared at them and felt the chill crawl up my spine.
He'd had someone following me.
My stomach sank, inch by inch. My voice shook. "You had me tailed?"
"If I hadn't looked into you, I wouldn't have known you were so capable." He pinched my waist, his gaze turning into a blade. "You brought another man into your home, and you still acted innocent with me? Willow Pierce, how did I not notice you were such a good actress?"
"I didn't bring him home!"
It burst out of me. "That day, it was—"
My voice broke, and the words died in my throat.
How the hell was I supposed to explain it?
I couldn't exactly say Ethan had pried my door lock.
But the mockery on Artyom's face only deepened. He didn't believe a damn thing.
He scoffed. "Oh, now you're quiet. So you admitted it."
His eyes darkened like a storm. "Willow, how did you handle two men, huh? Was I not enough for you, so you rushed to line up your next one?"
His words slapped me so hard my head rang. Blood surged up into my face.
I stared at him, stunned. How could he say something that filthy?
Was that what I was to him? Some shameless woman?
"Artyom!" My whole body shook with anger. "You bastard!"
I'd been insulted before. I'd learned not to care about those people.
But Artyom was different.
He'd been the person I trusted most. The person I'd liked.
And he used dirty words to grind my dignity under his heel. How was he any different from the people who'd humiliated me?
I wiped at my tears and dropped my weight down on him on purpose.
I braced my hands on his shoulders to hold him there, bared my teeth, and deliberately bounced my weight like a threat. "I'm gonna crush you."
Artyom looked at me.
A flicker of amusement crossed those dark gray eyes.
I knew I was heavy. When I settled down, I even felt his body tense for a split second.
I'd thought he was uncomfortable.
Then I felt him go hard. Heat spread under me.
I froze. The anger on my face cracked, replaced by something ridiculous and unreal.
My head buzzed, blanking out.
I'd meant to punish him. Make him regret running his mouth. But once I'd actually sat there and met his suddenly deeper gaze, I finally understood how obscene this position was.
Artyom's throat bobbed.
The coldness and sarcasm in his eyes faded like smoke in a wind, revealing something darker underneath. Something dangerous.
He didn't push me away. He lifted a hand instead, his palm burning, and locked it around my waist.
"Willow," he said, voice rough, a breathy restraint in it. Not the cutting ice from a second ago—more like sandpaper scraping my nerves. "Do you have any idea how fucking tempting you look right now?"
My legs were spread on either side of his hips, my body practically pressed to his, my hands still on his shoulders.
His hand held my waist, and the heat of his palm bled straight through my thin shirt, making my skin tingle.
The room went quiet. Only our breathing grew heavier, louder.
My heart jumped, and the urge to punish him drained out of me.
I'd been out of my mind to do something this stupid.
"I..." I fumbled, palms on his chest again, trying to get up. "Let go of me. I'm still mad at you."
"Mad?" His hand didn't loosen. He squeezed, slow and deliberate. "Then use that fire where it belongs."
The meaning hit like a crack of thunder in my ear.
My face burned. Shame rushed hot enough to scorch, all the way to my ears.
The implication was too blunt. I couldn't handle it.
I wanted to snap back, to call him shameless, but my throat locked, and no sound came out.
Artyom didn't give me time to think.
His core flexed hard. In one brutal move, he took control back.
The world spun, and suddenly I was on my back with him over me.
"Willow." He dipped his head, his nose brushing mine, his voice hoarse as sin. "You climbed onto me yourself. You don't get to run from the consequences."
His hand slid behind my neck, fingers closing, and he kissed me—hard.