Chapter Eighteen - Lukin
I watch her in silence, my gaze locked on to Zoe as the doctor finishes tending to the wound on her head.
The soft rustle of the bandages, the quiet murmurs of the doctor as he works—everything else feels distant.
My focus is on her, on the way she flinches every time his hands come near her, and the way she’s keeping her eyes closed, as if pretending I’m not here.
She’s silent, exhausted, her face pale from the shock of the crash. She’s too dazed to argue, but I know she’s still thinking about how she ended up in this mess. Her refusal to speak, to acknowledge me, only sharpens my resolve.
The phone call confirmed what I’d already suspected. I knew before it was said aloud. She’s pregnant. My child.
But I need more than just the call. I need proof—hard, irrefutable proof. That’s why, as soon as I brought her back here, I had my private doctor come take her blood for testing. It’s been a few hours, and the results should come through any minute now.
I don’t take my eyes off her as the other doctor finishes his work, adjusting the bandages one last time before bowing his head slightly and exiting the room. The door clicks shut behind him, and for a moment, the only sound in the room is her shallow breathing.
Zoe shuts her eyes again, a small, deliberate movement. And I know it’s intentional. She’s avoiding me. Avoiding this. Avoiding the truth.
I step closer, my boots quiet on the floor, the only sound in the room my steady breath.
She doesn’t open her eyes, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. She’s trying to keep me out, to pretend I don’t matter, but I know her better than that. I know she’s feeling every ounce of this, whether she admits it or not.
She knows what I’m thinking. She knows what this means. She can avoid me all she wants, but I’m not leaving her side until I get what I want. Until I make sure she understands that there’s no turning back now.
The minutes pass slowly, the weight of the moment hanging thick in the air, but I’m not in any rush. I’ve waited this long.
And I’ll wait as long as it takes.
My phone buzzes, breaking the stillness.
I glance down, seeing the name on the screen. It’s my doctor.
I don’t hesitate. I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear. “Yes?”
“Mr. Rusnak,” the doctor says, steady and professional, “we’ve completed the tests on Miss Monroe. She is eight weeks pregnant.”
I don’t flinch at the confirmation. I already knew, but hearing it from him—hearing the clinical, factual reality of it—makes it settle in my chest like a weight. This is real. This is happening.
“Good,” I murmur, my voice cold, detached, despite the storm swirling inside me. “Make sure everything is in order. We’ll need to take the next steps immediately.”
There’s a pause on the other end. I can hear the doctor shuffling papers. “Understood, Mr. Rusnak. We’ll continue monitoring her condition. The results are clear, and we’ll keep her in the best care possible.”
I hang up.
My eyes don’t leave Zoe as she lies there, trying to pretend none of this matters, but it does.
I already know the truth. She’s eight weeks pregnant, carrying my child.
I walk toward her slowly, my footsteps measured, deliberate, my gaze unreadable. The question that’s been burning in my chest finally slips from my lips, low and dangerous. I know the truth, I just need confirmation. In my line of business, the smallest assumption can get you killed.
“Whose is it, Zoe?”
I can see her body tense at the words, and for a moment, she doesn’t react. Her eyes stay closed, but I can feel the weight of the question pressing down on her.
I watch her carefully, waiting for a response. The silence stretches between us.
And then, she opens her eyes, wide and full of disbelief, like she can’t believe I would even ask such a thing.
But I’ve seen her with him. I saw her standing there beside Jason, pretending like everything was normal, like nothing had happened between us. Like none of this had ever happened.
The memory of it stings, and I feel my jaw tighten in response.
“Jason?” I press, my voice low, almost as if the name tastes bitter in my mouth. Actually, it does. Only common sense stops me from ordering his death right now.
Her face flickers, just for a moment, like she’s caught between telling the truth and hiding the reality of it. She flinches slightly, and I can feel it in my gut.
The tension in the room is thick. I want her to deny it. I want her to tell me that she’s mine—that this child is mine.
Finally, she looks at me, her eyes steady, but there’s something quiet about her expression, something that feels more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen.
“I never slept with Jason,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I feel a weight lift from my chest, something I didn’t even realize I was holding on to until now. Her words settle in me like a promise, something deep and unspoken, like she’s already acknowledging what’s between us.
Her answer is exactly what I needed to hear.
My expression shifts almost instantly. I can’t help the relief that floods through me. It’s good.
She already knows. She knows she belongs to me.
And that’s how it should be.
I walk across the room, the tension still thick in the air. My hands are steady as I pour myself a drink, the amber liquid swirling in the glass as I take my time, savoring the slosh in the glass. It’s a rare moment of calm in a storm of emotions, but it’s all I have right now.
I turn back to her, and I can feel the weight of the decision pressing on me, settling into the space between us. My gaze doesn’t leave her as I take a slow sip, the glass cool against my fingers.
Then I say it, my voice firm, final, as if I’m reading off a verdict, something she can’t argue with.
“We’re getting married. Next week.”
She stares at me, confusion clouding her expression. She doesn’t respond at first, as if she’s misheard. But I’m not repeating myself. I won’t.
“What?” She looks bewildered.
“The child of the Bratva Pakhan will not be born out of wedlock,” I say, the words cold and commanding. “What kind of example would that set?”
She opens her mouth, like she’s going to protest, but the words falter before they even leave her lips. I don’t need her to speak. She’s cornered now. She knows it.
I walk back toward her, my steps deliberate, slow. My drink still in hand, I lean in close. My finger brushes lightly along her cheek.
“You should be happy,” I murmur, my voice low, almost teasing. “You get to carry my name before the world knows you’re carrying my child.”
She doesn’t respond, her lips trembling just slightly, but that’s enough. I see it—I’ve won.
And for now, that’s all that matters.
I straighten, leaving her in the room, my footsteps quiet on the floor. I don’t trust her to stay, not yet. Not after everything. Not after the way she tried to run from me before.
I lock the door behind me. The sound of the bolt clicking in to place is final, like a promise I’m making to myself.
She’s mine now. And this time, there’s no escape.
As soon as I leave the room, I’m met with a familiar presence—Arseny. He’s standing there, just a few feet away, appearing from the shadows as if he’s been waiting for me. His expression is neutral, but there’s a sharpness to his gaze, a knowing look that tells me he’s aware of the situation.
I don’t waste my time before I turn to him, my anger rising above the surface. “Who was the driver that took Zoe from the gala?”
“His name is Ricardo,” he says, the words coming out clipped.
I look Arseny dead in the eyes, my voice cold, biting. “He hurt her,” I say, my words slow and deliberate. “He crashed the car. She’s hurt. I don’t want to see him again. If I do, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”
Arseny doesn’t blink. He knows the violence that simmers just beneath the surface. But I can see that he understands. The weight of my words lands, and he nods, acknowledging the seriousness of the promise.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says quietly, his gaze unwavering.
“Good.” I start walking again. “Where’s Adrian? We have a wedding to plan.”