Chapter 19
VIKTOR
Afew quiet days pass, but I can’t let down my guard. Ever since that wedding dress showed up, I feel on edge. When Mikhail started leaving bodies all over Brooklyn, they were a message to everyone. He left that crate on my doorstep. He knows I have her.
My only consolation is that he doesn’t know where. At least not yet. The crate showed up at the old safe house and Sergei arranged to have it brought here. He’s getting closer, though. It won’t be long until he finds us. Sergei is right, of course. We’re going to need an exit plan.
I’m in the control room watching the security feeds for any unauthorized movement when I hear clattering in the kitchen. I get up to check on the noise and find Anya standing at the stove, trying to make herself something to eat.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I ask her warily.
She turns to look back at me with a smirk on her face.
“I’m hungry,” she says. “I think I’m making food.”
“Your nurse will bring you whatever you want,” I remind her. “Or one of the guards. Literally anyone in this house will cater to your every whim.”
“My only ‘whim’ at the moment is to do something for myself,” she says in a challenging tone. “I’m tired of being cooped up in bed. At some point, exercise is better than rest.”
“When you’re cleared by a medical professional,” I agree. “Have you been cleared?’
She turns back to the stove and shrugs.
“I cleared myself.”
I roll my eyes and walk over to her. If she insists on being independent, she needs to understand that sometimes independence means accepting help.
“What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing me warily as I grab an apron and put it on over my suit.
“I’m going to be your sous chef.” I wink at her. “I’ll bring you whatever ingredients you want so you can cook them yourself. It’s a compromise.”
She sighs heavily and shakes her head. I think she’s going to refuse my help, but she just looks over at me and says, “Can you slice up an onion?”
A few minutes later, she’s made a simple omelet with vegetables and cheese.
It’s not much, but I imagine that it tastes like freedom to her, after being cooped up in bed all week.
I take her plate so she can start her slow shuffle to the table.
She’s breathing hard and still winces when she moves the wrong way.
“Have you taken your meds today?” I ask her sternly.
“I don’t need them,” she argues. “I’m doing fine.”
“Tell that to your face,” I answer, and she flips me the bird.
“You would do the same thing,” she argues. “We aren’t porcelain dolls. When we break, we pick up the pieces and keep moving.”
“The difference is, I’m not pregnant,” I remind her.
“Wouldn’t that be a modern medical marvel?” she grumbles. “I’d be more than happy to let you carry this child for nine months with two cracked ribs.”
She finally makes it to the table and, naturally, refuses my help to sit down. She’s still moving slowly, but she’s doing it on her own terms. That’s important to her. In some ways, that’s the only control she has over her life right now, and I’m not going to deny her of that.
“How are you really feeling? Abou the baby?” I ask, suddenly feeling nervous.
We haven’t talked about it much. There was just the brief conversation at the clinic, but I’m a total fish out of water. Planning war? Easy. Talking about pregnancy? Terrifying.
“I think it’s fine.” She shrugs. “I’m sick every morning, which is apparently normal. I’m nauseous all the time, but I feel much worse if I don’t eat anything. I have to pee like crazy, and—”
“That’s okay,” I say, putting up my hand. “I don’t need every gory detail.”
“You did ask,” she answers with a smirk. “You look like you’re going to throw up. Will the great Viktor Kovalev be toppled by talk of bodily functions?”
“It’s better than the alternative.” I shrug casually.
Neither of us speak for a moment, because we know what’s waiting on the other side of that discussion. Mikhail isn’t going to stop until he has Anya back, and I’m never going to let that happen. There will be a lot of bloodshed and pain to get there. She’s worth it, though. Our family is worth it.
“Do you ever think about what will happen if we lose this war?” she asks quietly, picking at her food.
“No,” I say automatically. “That isn’t an option. Losing you and the baby is not an option. We will win because we have to.”
She looks up and I notice her eyes are a little glassy, but I know she’ll never let herself cry in front of me. That would require vulnerability, and she isn’t going to offer me that. Not ever.
“Before I found out about the baby, I was having nightmares,” she admits softly. “About how it was with him. What he put me through.”
“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say, reaching out and placing my hand on top of hers. “Not if you don’t want to. I knew it was bad. You fought off three men just to get away from him.”
She nods, and she doesn’t shake off my hand. Instead, she surprises me by turning her own hand over and linking her fingers through mine.
“The nurse said that my bad heartburn means our baby is going to have a lot of hair,” she says, changing the subject.
My heart leaps in my chest. Our baby.
“That’s probably my fault.” I smile. “Kovalevs are notoriously hairy.”
She nearly spits out her drink at that. It’s nice to see her laugh.
“That would have been nice to know before you knocked me up.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“It wasn’t exactly planned, was it?” I laugh. “I still don’t exactly know how we ended up in that position.”
“Oh really?” she asks, quirking her eyebrow. “It wasn’t your intention all along to seduce me?”
“Seduce you?” I chuckle again. “You basically attacked me!”
“That’s not how I remember it,” she shoots back. “It definitely felt like you enjoyed yourself a lot more than I did.”
“Is that why you were screaming my name so loud they could hear it in Brighton?” I counter.
She blushes, and a strange sense of camaraderie falls on us. We haven’t talked about this since it happened, and I didn’t think we ever would. Of course, I also never imagined we’d be discussing morning sickness. It feels kind of nice.
“I hope we have a little boy,” she says cautiously, like she’s too afraid to even wish it out loud.
Her free hand moves down to her stomach and she looks down, like she can see something there that I can’t.
“Me too,” I agree. “The idea of having a daughter terrifies me.”
She looks up in surprise. “Really?” she asks. “Why is that?”
“Because I’ll always be more protective of her. She can never have a boyfriend, and if a boy should break her heart, he’s getting the full force of my Bratva.”
She laughs at this.
“I’m glad to see you’re going to continue the classic patriarchal bullshit,” she says with an eyeroll.
“Why do you want a boy?” I ask, challenging her argument.
“Because boys get respect in this world,” she says, and puts her finger up to stop me from arguing. “Which is just true. It’s not something that I have the power to change, but it would be a relief to not have to worry so much about his future.”
We sit for a moment in silence, and I really consider that. A future with her. One where we raise this child together. We’re barely on speaking terms most of the time, but I like the idea of our child having two active parents. I like the idea of her being mine.
“You’ll be a great mother,” I say tenderly. “Whether we have a son or a daughter, that’s not going to change.”
She squeezes my hand and it’s like I feel electricity moving through my body. My fingertips feel electrified where she’s holding them. The air between us similarly feels charged, and it’s like I’m magnetized to her. I move closer and she tilts her head, welcoming me.
The first kiss is sweet, almost chaste. It’s like a promise between two friends who know they’re about to share something profound. It takes only a moment for it to become hotter. Her tongue traces my mouth and I grant her entrance, letting her take the lead.
She’ll never be able to say she doesn’t want it this time. She’s fully in control of this situation.
I let go of her hand and run my fingers through her hair, anchoring her so I can kiss her more fully. She moans into my mouth, and I know then that I’m a goner. What is it about a kitchen table that gets us so in the mood?
I chuckle against her lips at the thought, but she grasps me tighter. I carefully wrap my other arm around her waist, pulling her closer to me.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “I mean, are you hurting at all?”
She shakes her head and grabs my shirt in her fists, deepening our kiss. It’s like she can’t get enough of me.
“Not here,” I whisper. “Not this time.”
“My bedroom is closer,” she murmurs against my lips.
Needing no more encouragement, I carefully pick her up, and she automatically wraps her legs around my waist. I can already feel the evidence of my desire growing.
I can’t get us up the stairs fast enough.
I also have to be mindful of her injury.
I want this so much, but I don’t want to hurt her in any way.
By the time I reach the threshold of her bedroom, I’m too drunk off her kisses to pay much attention to anything. She is relentless and needy, panting and mewling with every movement.
“How do you want to do this?” I ask her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
She lets go of me and I carefully set her down. She takes a step back and I worry for a moment that she’s changed her mind. But her eyes are dark and heavy-lidded. She speaks in a raspy voice.
“Take off your clothes. I want to see exactly how hairy a Kovalev man is.”
I laugh heartily and begin a slow striptease for her as she positions herself gingerly on the bed. Her breathing is still labored, but I’m not sure if that’s from the kissing or the rib pain. In the meantime, I slowly unbutton my shirt, relishing in the way she bites her lip and eye-fucks me.
As my hands move down to my belt, she shakes her head.
“I want to do that,” she says. “Come here.”
I walk over to the bed and hiss as she frees me from my boxers. She strokes my length, staring at it with hungry eyes.
“I didn’t fully take the time to appreciate this,” she says hoarsely, looking up at me with a dangerous expression.
I nearly collapse when she takes the head into her mouth. That’s not what she wants, though.
“I just wanted a taste.” She giggles. “What I need is you inside of me. Sit down.”
I follow her command willingly, waiting with saintly patience as she maneuvers herself on top of me.
I carefully grab her waist, steadying her.
She holds onto my shoulders for support.
I help her remove her shirt, and try not to wince at the sight of her bruise.
Apart from that, her body is an exquisite masterpiece.
“Do you like what you see?” she asks, forcing my head up to look at her. I nod solemnly.
She kisses me again as I work her pants down. It’s a bit of an awkward dance, but it gives me the opportunity to squeeze her ass and run my hands down her perfect thighs.
“You’re gorgeous,” I breathe against her lips.
She kisses me harder, positioning herself on top of me before sliding down my length. We both take a moment to breathe, to adjust, to feel the magic of the moment. I don’t push her, even though I desperately want to give her every inch of me. She has to set the pace. She has to control this.
She winces a little, whether it’s from my size or her cracked rib. I’m not sure, but I give her a moment. Her forehead rests against mine and I wait with supernatural patience.
“We can stop if this is too much,” I tell her, though it’s the last thing I want. “We don’t have to do this.”
She shakes her head. “I think we just need to go really slowly and it’ll be okay,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I smile, kissing her softly. “I can do slow.”
She sets a punishingly slow pace, but it gives me the space to feel the gravity of this. We aren’t rushing. We aren’t angrily tearing off each other’s clothes. This is a choice that we’re consciously making.
My pleasure builds slowly, growing greater with every moan and gasp that escapes her lips.
I reach a hand between us and use my thumb to draw circles around her swollen clit.
When her walls start to clench around me, I can’t hold it off anymore and I explode, draining deeply into her. The force of it leaves me breathless.
I’ve never felt anything so powerful before, and I know that I never will with anyone else. I collapse back against the mattress, pulling her down gently with me as she continues to convulse with her own orgasm. I hold her through it and silently pray that we never have to let go of each other.