Chapter Nine
Mirabel
The mirror doesn’t lie.
I stand naked in the morning light streaming through my bedroom window, fingers hovering over the gentle swell of my stomach. Not much. Not yet. But enough that I can see it when I turn to the side, when the shadows catch just right.
My baby. His baby.
The thought sends a complicated rush through my chest; half terror, half something that scares me more than the kidnapping did.
Clothes still hide it. The loose dresses I’ve been wearing, the oversized sweaters. But I’m running out of time. Another few weeks, maybe a month at most, and there’ll be no hiding what’s growing inside me.
I have to tell Arkady.
The words have sat on my tongue every time I’ve seen him, every time he’s touched me. But something stops me. Fear, no doubt. And the weight of knowing that once I tell him, everything changes.
He’s never been the easiest man to be around. Our moments of intimacy are invariably interrupted by him withdrawing, or disappearing entirely. Yesterday, in the library—
My face heats at the memory. The Persian rug beneath my back. His mouth on mine. The way he’d looked at me after, like I was something precious he was terrified of breaking.
And then that phone call.
The way his whole body changed. Went rigid. The softness draining from his expression until all that remained was the mafia boss, the man I sometimes forget he is when he holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
I have to go.
No explanation. No promises of when he’d return.
Just gone.
Just the way he always goes.
I pull on a pair of loose jeans and an oversized sweater, watching my reflection disappear beneath the fabric. Safe. Hidden. Buying myself more time.
The house feels too quiet this morning. No sign of Arkady.
No heavy footsteps of security guards in the hallways.
I’m left alone with my thoughts and the endless list of tasks that never seems to shrink.
I start the way I always do—phone calls to coordinate with the handymen to oversee the never-ending list of tasks required by a house this size, sorting through laundry that smells like expensive cologne and gun oil, organizing the pantry because someone decided to put the pasta where the rice belongs.
Normal. Routine. Like I’m not hiding a baby. Like I wasn’t almost trafficked to Dubai a few days ago. Like the man who pays my salary didn’t make me come apart on his library floor yesterday before disappearing without a trace.
By late morning, I’ve moved outside to tend the garden. The roses need pruning, and the physical work helps quiet the questions circling in my head. I’m elbow-deep in thorns when movement at the main entrance catches my eye.
A car pulls up. Not one of Arkady’s usual black SUVs with tinted windows and armed drivers. This one’s smaller. More ordinary. A woman steps out wearing light blue scrubs—a nurse, maybe—and she checks her phone before looking up at the house.
My hands go still on the pruning shears.
She’s waiting for someone. Makes a call. Another car arrives minutes later, and a man in a white coat emerges. A doctor.
They head into the house together.
My chest tightens.
Is Arkady ill?
The thought slams into me with unexpected force. It would explain so much—the dark moods, the tension, the way he sometimes touches me like he’s memorizing the feel of my skin. Like he’s running out of time.
Oh God.
I stand frozen in the garden, soil under my fingernails and thorns snagging on my sweater, watching the front door long after it closes behind them.
Part of me wants to march inside and demand answers.
But the rest of me—the part that knows my place here, that remembers I’m the housekeeper who happens to warm his bed, not his wife, not his confidante—keeps me rooted.
Time passes. I’m not sure how much. I go through the motions of deadheading spent blooms, my mind elsewhere.
Then I see him.
Arkady emerges from the east wing—the private section of the house I’m not supposed to enter without permission. He’s been spending more time in there lately. I’d noticed but hadn’t asked. You don’t ask Arkady Laurov questions he’s not ready to answer.
He walks to his car with that lethal grace that makes my stomach flip even when I’m trying to be rational. Dressed in all black, hair slightly mussed like he ran his hands through it too many times. The doctor and nurse are nowhere in sight.
The car door slams. Engine roars. Gravel crunches beneath tires.
Gone again.
I sink onto the garden bench, the morning’s careful composure cracking around the edges.
What is he hiding? What is he dealing with that requires medical professionals and disappearing acts?
The questions circle and circle, finding no answers.
I finish the pruning in a daze, then move inside to tackle the endless ironing, the phone calls, the small logistical issues of managing supplementary staff and stocking supplies.
But my mind keeps drifting back to that doctor, that nurse, the grim set of Arkady’s shoulders as he drove away.
Evening comes too fast and too slow at once. I’m in my room, book open on my lap, but the words swimming meaningless across the page, when the knock comes. Sharp. Decisive. The sound he makes when he wants something.
I set the book aside and cross to the door, my heart already beating faster.
Arkady stands in the hallway. Still in black. Still looking like danger wrapped in expensive fabric.
“We need to talk,” he says, and steps inside before I can respond.
I close the door behind him. The room suddenly feels smaller with him in it, his presence taking up more than physical space. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there watching me.
“You never told me where you were.” The words come out flat, controlled. “And don’t lie to me, Mirabel. I’ve been patient. Now you’re going to tell me the truth.”
My throat dries. He knows. Of course he knows. He probably knew before I even got back to the estate.
“I was with Diane,” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Don’t bullshit me about Diane. You disappeared.” His accent thickens, Russian consonants sharp as knives. “What happened?”
God, what’s the use in lying?
I’d almost told him at the library. Then I’d convinced myself I could keep it buried. That the men who grabbed me outside Dad’s house would stay a nightmare I didn’t have to share.
But standing here under his stare, I realize how stupid that was. You don’t hide things from Arkady Laurov. You just decide when you’re ready to bleed.
“I was kidnapped.” My voice comes out surprisingly steady, given the terror clawing at my insides. “Outside Dad’s house. Three men. They chloroformed me, threw me in a van.”
Something dangerous flashes across his face. His hands form fists at his sides.
“What?” There’s so much controlled violence in the word that it makes me flinch.
“I managed to escape. Kicked out the back doors while we were stopped in traffic and ran.” I force myself to hold his gaze. “One of them chased me. Kostya, they called him. But I got away. Made it to Diane’s place.”
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long were you at Diane’s?” Each word measured, controlled. The calm before the violence I know he’s capable of.
“A day. Overnight.” I feel like I’m being interrogated. Which I am.
“And you didn’t think to tell me.” Not a question. An accusation.
“I knew you’d—” I stop, choose my words carefully. “I knew you’d react exactly like you’re reacting now.”
“Oh?” He steps closer. “And how am I reacting?”
“Like you’re about to lock me in this house and throw away the key.”
His jaw works. “You’re not leaving. Not until I deal with whoever came after you.”
“Arkady—”
“No.” The single word cuts through any argument I might have made. “You don’t get a say in this, zaychik. Not when your safety is at stake.”
Heat flares in my chest—anger mixing with fear mixing with something else I don’t quite understand. “You can’t just decide that.”
“Watch me.”
The absolute certainty in his voice makes my hands shake. I press them against my thighs, willing the tremor to stop.
“You’re not my keeper,” I say, hating how the words come out—not fierce, but pleading. “I have a life. Responsibilities. My father—”
“Your father is being taken care of. I’ll make sure of it.
” He moves closer still, backing me toward the bed.
Not threatening. Just inevitable. “But you? You stay here. Under my protection. No more running off. No more hiding. No more putting yourself in danger because you think you can handle everything alone.”
My spine hits the edge of the mattress. “I need to visit Dad. The hospital. I can’t just—”
“I’ll arrange visits. Supervised. Secure.” His hand comes up, cups my face. “You almost got taken, Mirabel. Almost disappeared. Do you understand what that means? What they would have done to you?”
Yes. I understand. I heard them say Gavriil’s name. Heard them talking about a destination like it was already decided.
“This isn’t fair,” I whisper.
“No. It’s not.” His other hand finds my hip, steadies me when I sway. “But it’s how it’s going to be.”
He kisses my forehead. Once. Gentle. Then he’s pulling back, moving toward the door.
“Arkady, wait—”
But he’s already gone. The door closes behind him with quiet finality.
I stand there staring at it. Part of me wants to throw it open, chase after him, slap him and demand he listen. But I know better. I’ve seen the security cameras, the guards who patrol every inch of this estate. Even if I walked out that door right now, I wouldn’t make it past the gates.
He doesn’t need to lock me in. The whole house is a goddamn cage.
I sink down onto the bed, rage spiking first—hot and immediate. But it burns itself out quickly, leaving something colder behind.
Fear.
Not of him. Never of him. But of the men who grabbed me. My hand drifts to my stomach. The baby underneath. Arkady’s baby.
Safe. I’m safe here. Behind guards and security cameras, and a man who’d burn the city down to protect what’s his.
But does he really think of me as his?
I shake my head to clear it, refusing to let myself ask that question. The baby inside me deserves that protection. Deserves walls between it and monsters who traffic girls to sick perverts. Between it and whatever darkness runs in the Laurov blood.
As long as I’m working, I can pay for Dad’s hospital bills. As long as Arkady wants me here, I have value. Purpose. A reason to stay even when every instinct screams to run.
I curl up on my side, tears sliding down my cheeks—silent, hot, shameful.
The house feels like both a prison and a fortress.
“What would you do if you were here, Debra?” I whisper to the empty room.
But Debra can’t answer. I have no idea if she’s even still alive. If she’s suffering somewhere while I hide in luxury, pregnant with the child of the man who has consumed my life completely.
And I’m here. Trapped. Protected.
Hating how much I need it.