Chapter Iskra
Iskra
The entire evening had been strange. Vadim was being courteous—making small talk, asking questions about me—as though he had decided to try a different approach and was executing it with the same controlled deliberateness he applied to everything else.
I fixed my hair and let it fall on either side of my face, covering some of my shoulders and chest. The dress was a size too small and bought before my pregnancies.
I tugged at the neckline. It had been optimistic to think I could pull it off.
I should have worn something more comfortable, and I would have eaten more if I had.
It wouldn’t be long before I would need maternity clothing.
This time I knew what to expect.
That familiar bubbling at the pit of my stomach made me smile despite everything. A brother or sister for Runa. Another small person arriving into this strange arrangement we were all living inside.
All of us in one room reminded me of sneaking into my parents’ room as a child to play with Ruslan.
But I couldn’t deny that Vadim was nothing like my father in that respect.
He could be a little too involved at times—present in a way I hadn’t anticipated, attentive in a way I didn’t have a category for.
I had put it down to him missing the first months of Runa’s life.
Despite myself, I felt guilty about that. Not for him. For Runa.
I thought of her delighted giggles the morning we woke to find her standing in her cot—body rigid with the effort of it, hands gripping the wooden bars, moving back and forth with an excitement that would have been jumping if her feet hadn’t been tangled in her blanket.
I had watched the shock cross Vadim’s face before he crossed the room to her—praising her, smothering her face with kisses, entirely undignified and entirely unaware of it. I was a little envious of my daughter. She got to slap his face repeatedly without consequence.
Then he had turned to me.
That had landed differently. He had wanted me to share the moment. Not as an observer—as the other parent. The person who was supposed to be there.
I sighed and tilted my head back.
He was a strange man. Singular in his distinct way and I had no idea what to do with him—which was a new problem, because I had always known exactly what my plan was before. Our children would need me to ensure they didn’t end up emotionally deficient like their father. That much was clear.
I gave myself a final check in the mirror before turning to the door.
As strange as all of it was, tonight had revealed another layer of him.
Which was the most unsettling thing about it—not that he was cruel, but that he wasn’t only cruel.
It was best to remain on my guard. He hadn’t mentioned the contract or his past behaviour.
Neither had I. We were both circling something we hadn’t named yet.
He had me in the east wing now. His space. Using Runa as a buffer and knowing exactly what he was doing.
I straightened my spine, raised my chin and walked toward our table.
The restaurant was quieter than before—a few empty tables, the settled hush of an evening winding down. I scanned it out of habit. Old instincts.
As I drew closer I watched Vadim crush his cigarette out with the focused force of a man imagining it was someone’s skull.
The man needed anger management classes.
I pulled out my chair.
He stared at me for a moment before placing a small metal case on the table. He hadn’t had it when he came into the restaurant. I glanced around—Tikhon standing a few feet away beside a pillar, Bogdan missing from his post.
“The pregnancy test will just be a formality,” he said, clicking the metal latches open. “We both know how hard I worked to impregnate you.”
I rolled my eyes. Even so, my mind went straight to the table in the basement.
He turned the case toward me.
Inside was a small silver pistol. Compact enough to disappear into any bag. I touched the cold metal, tracing the grooves with my fingertips until I reached the grip—designed to be held, designed to be used. The magazine sat beside it in a fitted cutout.
I lifted the gun out. Such a small thing to take a life with.
But a terrible method. You might as well leave your name and address beside the body. Ballistics. Residue. Entry wounds. Law enforcement wouldn’t need to think twice.
Poison, on the other hand—
“For your safety,” he said, his hand closing over mine.
My breath caught at the back of my throat. The warmth of the evening vanished as a chill snaked up my spine.
Makari.
My vision blurred so suddenly that I looked away from him before he could see it. I placed the gun back into the foam placeholder with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.
“What was he like?” I asked, placing my fingers over his wrist. The warmth of it was steadying. I pressed my fingertips down until I felt the pulse beneath—steady, present, alive. “Makari.”
I let the tears fall. Unashamed.
“Small. Too small.” He paused. “He looked as though he were asleep. He had my hair.”
More tears followed. I nodded.
“Your genes probably go in and take charge,” I said, reaching for a napkin.
“I didn’t mean to keep him from you,” he said.
I raised my eyes and studied him through wet lashes.
He wasn’t lying.
“They had to use forceps,” he said, his gaze moving to a point somewhere behind me. “He was badly bruised.”
Could I have lived with the image that haunted his eyes? I was glad I hadn’t needed to find out. He had carried that alone. Whatever his reasons—and I knew his reasons—he had borne that so I didn’t have to.
My eyes welled again. I blinked until the gun came back into focus on the table between us. A small silver pistol in a restaurant in Chernograd. I was bound to this world—to the Bratva, to its violence, to the man across the table—through vows I hadn’t chosen and children I would die for.
“Sergei is gone,” he said, closing both hands around mine. His thumb moved over my rings, slow and deliberate—the gesture of a man reminding both of them of something. “But we are still searching for his son.”
I raised my head. Straightened my spine. Looked directly into those pale eyes.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll shoot you?”
He chuckled—low, unhurried, his eyes dropping briefly to my chest before returning to my face.
“Afraid?” he said. “That would be foreplay.”
We stared at each other. Long enough for it to become something neither of us was willing to name.
“Don’t tempt me,” I muttered, and pulled my hand away from his.
“I will try not to antagonise you this time,” he said.
My head jerked up. He was busy snapping the case shut, his eyes down, as though the concession had been directed at the table rather than at me.
It wasn’t like Vadim to concede anything. To anyone.
How very irregular of him.
Dinner. A gun. And now this.
“Do you have cancer?” I blurted out.
His head stayed low but his eyes flicked up—staring at me through those dark lashes. Just like Runa’s. I swallowed.
“I mean—are you dying?”
I winced. That hadn’t sounded any better.
“Fuck it.” I slapped my hand on the table. “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”
That got his full attention.
He looked at me the way he always had—steady, unhurried, giving nothing away—and after all this time I still couldn’t tell if he wanted to fuck me or kill me.
Some days I suspected both, in no particular order.
He raised his hand and clicked his fingers.
Someone rushed toward the table.
“Bring the car to the back entrance,” he snapped.
Never once did he take his eyes off mine.