Chapter 3
Ivan
“Are you okay?” I asked Mary.
Two days ago, we’d moved her to a safe house for her own safety, because she begged us to help her, telling us she’d be punished for speaking out and not keeping her mouth shut.
So, until the McCarthys were in a less hostile mood, she was under our care. Not that she looked like a captive while she was lounging on the sofa, looking like a queen holding court.
Her black hair fanned out behind her, her green eyes sharp as she watched the two hulking bodyguards—Killian and Blade—standing like statues on either side of the door. They were there to protect her, but from the way she was smirking, it was clear she was enjoying the view.
“I want to stay here forever,” she declared, stretching her arms above her head. “If I thought you’d be as nice as you are, I would have agreed to marry you or your brother.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not ours, Mary. We have an omega. We just have to find her again.”
She pouted, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “She’s very lucky.”
“She didn’t think so,” I admitted. “She ran.”
Mary laughed, a bright, unexpected sound. “You are scary-looking.”
I turned to the mirror on the wall, taking in my reflection. Dark brown hair, a beard-covered jaw that had seen its fair share of fists, and sapphire eyes that had a habit of making people confess things they weren't supposed to.
“Not your face,” she clarified. “Your demeanor. You have an energy about you that is…” She glanced at Killian and Blade, who were doing their best impression of immovable objects. “You all have this scary-but-sexy energy.”
Killian’s cheek twitched. Blade’s eyes were on me, but I could have sworn I saw the ghost of a smile.
I was about to respond when a phone buzzed on the table. I looked at Artem as I picked it up.
He nodded. Brothers never hid anything from each other.
As I read the message, my heart stopped beating and I’m fairly certain my blood stopped moving.
CARD ALERT: Card ending 0926.
Amount: ￡1,042.90.
Online: Boots.
Click and collect: Post Office, Lothian Road, Edinburgh
Boots.
I stared at the word until it rearranged itself into something my brain could process. Boots. Not a hotel. Not a train station. Not a passport office.
Boots. Where people bought things for babies.
The math hit me like a freight train. Nine months. She’d been gone for nearly nine months. And that was not a coincidence. It was nearly nine months since we had two nights in Prague and for those two nights to become a permanent consequence.
“Milly…” I whispered.
Artem’s scent, which had been a flatline since she disappeared, the lack of a scent that the doctor had classified as "grief-suppressed", detonated. The crystal decanter on the side table rattled.
Artem was already moving toward me, his long strides eating up the distance to the door. "Where is she?"
"She’s in Scotland."
Mary’s eyes widened.
The chair went backward, hitting the floor.
"Scotland," Artem repeated, and then he grinned. My brother had spent nine months punching walls, throwing furniture, and growling at anyone in his vicinity, and now he was grinning like a child on Christmas morning. "Where in Scotland?"
"Edinburgh. And she’s buying a cot. Which means she is either pregnant, or she has developed an unusual hobby, and given the timeline, I’m going with—"
"Ivan?" Artem was on my side, looking at the screen. Then he looked at me. "Boots," he said, processing. "Boots is for... that’s for..."
"Babies, Artem." I didn’t blink.
"She’s having our baby."
"Yes."
"We’re having a—"
"Sorry, Mary," I interrupted, standing and moving toward the door. "We need to leave. But remember, Killian and Blade are in charge. No running away until we know it’s safe for you to go home."
And until we know the marriage contract has been dissolved.
Mary sat up straighter, her expression went from amusement to something sharper. "Wait. Are you leaving now? But I haven’t even had lunch yet."
Artem shot her a look that would have made a lesser woman wilt. "It’s on order. Stay here and you’ll live until your food arrives."
She grinned. "Fine. But if you find her, tell her she’s very lucky. And if she’s smart, she’ll run toward you next time, not away."
I paused, my hand on the doorknob. "You’re not as scared of us as you should be, Mary."
She shrugged. "I’ve spent my life around men who think they’re gods. You three are just... men. Scary men, yes. But at least you’re honest about it." She tilted her head, studying me. "Though I do think you’re the best-looking of the bunch. If I had to marry one of you..."
I groaned.
Gregor, who had joined us but had been silent until now, let out a choked laugh.
I held up a hand. "No. Absolutely not. You’re far too young for me."
Mary’s grin turned wicked. "I’m eighteen. That’s legal. And I like older men."
"Jesus," I muttered. “You should steer clear of men like me.”
“Should she? The omega you’re obsessed with?”
Probably. “She’s different. She’s ours.”
"And you?" She turned to Gregor. "Would you marry me, Gregor?"
Gregor didn’t look up. "No."
"No explanation?"
"You’re a child."
Mary gasped in mock offense. "I am not a child."
Gregor finally met her eyes. "You’re a child to me. I prefer older women."
Artem clapped his hands together. "This is fascinating, but we have an omega to find. Mary, behave. Gregor, come. And Killian and Blade, hands off."
“Spoilsport,” she murmured.
Killian’s lips twitched, suggesting he was enjoying this far more than he should.
Gregor was at the front door when I got there, his hazel eyes locked onto me. He had the stillness of a man who could wait for centuries if the mission required it.
"Is it really her?" Gregor rumbled.
"It’s her."
Gregor’s jaw jutted out. That was it. That was his entire emotional response. For Gregor, a move of his jaw was the equivalent of me or Artem throwing a chair, screaming, and putting a hole through a wall simultaneously. I’d once seen Gregor take a bullet in Moscow with a less visible reaction.
"And Gregor?" I said.
"Boss."
"No scaring her."
“I’d never do that, Boss.”
Artem appeared behind me, shrugging on his jacket. "I’ve called the airport, but we have to wait eight hours for a slot."
I looked at my pack mates. For nine months, we’d been three alphas orbiting the absence of a woman like planets around a missing sun, and not one of us had admitted it out loud.
"We’ll drive," I said.
Artem didn’t argue. He just nodded, his eyes already distant, as if he was already halfway to Edinburgh.
"Good," he said. It was the most emotionally articulate thing he’d said in nine months.
The car was waiting at the curb. Black and obviously armored. The windows were tinted so dark they were nearly opaque because of the bulletproof glass, thick enough to stop a rifle round. Thick enough to protect our omega and our child.
I took the wheel because if anyone else drove, I would have ripped the door off.
Artem climbed into the passenger seat. Gregor took the back.
This was standard formation. Artem rode up front because he liked to talk.
Gregor rode in the back because he liked not talking.
I drove because neither of them could be trusted behind the wheel when the situation was emotional, and this situation was the most emotional thing that had happened to the Petrov Pack since our omega disappeared from the hotel room in Prague.
The engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through the seat. I pulled into traffic at a speed that was technically illegal but justified.
The wipers slashed across the windshield, struggling to keep up with the downpour. London was a blur of gray and rain, these days made the city feel like a cage. But who cared?
"So," Artem said, as I wove through the traffic. "Boots."
"Boots."
"Edinburgh."
"Edinburgh."
"And it’s been nine months. It has to be her."
I glanced at him. He was doing the sum on his fingers. Artem was a logistical guy, he ran the weapons division. He coordinated cross-border smuggling operations across four time zones. And he was counting to nine on his fingers like a child.
"She’s pregnant," Artem said, arriving at the conclusion. "Our omega is pregnant. With our—"
"Don’t finish that sentence until we have confirmation."
Artem turned to me, his pale blue eyes alight with hope. Something I hadn’t seen in months. "Ivan, she disappeared nearly nine months ago. She’s buying a cot. What other confirmation do you need, a birth announcement in The Times?"
From the back seat, Gregor spoke. "He’s right."
Artem turned around so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "Did you just say I was right? Gregor, did you just agree with me? Ivan, did you hear that? Mark the date. Write it down. Gregor said I was right."
"I said the timeline is right," Gregor clarified. "Not that you’re right as a general principle."
"Still counting it."
I drove.
The rain hammered against the windshield, the wipers working overtime.
The city faded behind us, replaced by the open road.
The M1 stretched out ahead, a ribbon of wet tarmac disappearing into the mist.
Artem leaned back in his seat, his fingers drumming against the door. "Nine months. She’s been gone for nine months, and she used the card."
"She knew we’d find her," Gregor said.
I smiled. "She wanted us to find her."
Gregor hummed in the back seat. A low, tuneless sound. I glanced at the rearview mirror. He was staring out the window, his face unreadable, but his fingers were tapping against his thigh in time with the hum.
Artem frowned. "Gregor, what are you humming?"
“Nothing.” Gregor started again.
"It’s not nothing," Artem insisted. "That’s—" He listened for a second, then his eyes widened. "No."
I grinned. "Is it Taylor Swift?"
Artem groaned. "It is Taylor Swift."
Gregor’s humming didn’t falter.
"Love Story," I said, horrified. "You’re humming Taylor Swift."
Artem burst out laughing. "Oh my God. Gregor, you secretly love pop music."