Chapter 22 - Nikolai
NIKOLAI
"You will," I say softly, stepping closer until I can feel the heat radiating from her body The scent of her shampoo, something floral and clean, fills my senses, and I'm acutely aware of every inch of space between us.
It's barely six inches now, close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, the slight tremor in her breath.
Aria's hands come up between us, palms flat against my chest, stopping me before I can close the final distance. "Don't."
The single word hits harder than any physical blow.
I freeze, my body coiled with tension and want, my hands already reaching for her waist. Her dark eyes hold mine with something that looks like pain mixed with determination, and I feel the rejection settle in my chest like a stone.
Her palms are warm through my shirt, and I can feel the slight pressure of each finger.
Not pushing me away, but holding me at bay.
It's a distinction that matters, though I'm not sure why.
"Aria—" I start, but she shakes her head.
"I can't do this right now," she whispers, her voice breaking slightly. "I can't let you touch me when I'm this angry at you. When I don't even know if I can trust you."
The words cut deeper than I want to admit.
My jaw tightens, every instinct screaming at me to pull her against me anyway, to kiss away her resistance until she remembers how good we are together.
My fingers itch to slide around her waist, to feel the curve of her hip beneath my palm, to remind her body what her mind is trying to deny.
But I force myself to step back, to give her the space she's demanding even though it costs me something fundamental. Pride wars with desire in my chest, a battle that leaves me feeling raw and exposed in a way I haven't felt since I was a boy learning that weakness gets you killed.
"You think I would lie to you about this?" My voice comes out rougher than I intend, the accent thickening with emotion I can't quite suppress. "About our child?"
"I don't know what to think anymore." She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive gesture that puts another barrier between us.
Her fingers dig into her own biceps, knuckles white with the force of her grip.
"You keep things from me. You make decisions without me.
How am I supposed to trust that you're telling me everything now? "
"I have never lied to you about what matters." I take another step back, putting more distance between us because if I stay this close, I won't be able to stop myself from reaching for her again. The space between us feels like a chasm, widening with every breath. "Never about us."
"But you've lied about other things." Her eyes glisten with unshed tears that catch the dim light, making them look like fractured glass.
She blinks rapidly, refusing to let them fall, and I recognize that stubborn pride because it mirrors my own.
"And you've made it very clear that you'll do whatever you think is necessary, regardless of what I want or how I feel about it. "
The accusation stings because it's true, because she's seen through the careful justifications I've built around my actions.
I've built an empire on doing what's necessary, on making the hard choices that others won't make.
It's kept me alive, kept my people safe, kept the Volkov Bratva at the top of the food chain in a world where weakness is a death sentence.
But standing here, watching her pull away from me, watching the woman carrying my child look at me like I'm a stranger she can't quite trust, I'm starting to understand that the rules that govern my world don't apply to whatever this is between us.
"What do you want from me, Aria?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, frustration bleeding through my carefully maintained control. "You want me to be someone I'm not? To pretend that the world we live in operates on trust and good intentions?"
"I want you to let me in." Her voice drops to barely above a whisper, but the words hit like a physical blow. "I want you to stop treating me like I'm something fragile that needs to be protected from reality. I'm having your baby, Nikolai. I'm already in this world, whether you like it or not."
The truth of her words settles over me like a weight. She's right. The moment I touched her, the moment I claimed her, I pulled her into my world. And now she's carrying the next generation of the Volkov bloodline, making her more deeply entangled in this life than I ever intended.
"This isn't over," I tell her, my voice low and rough with promise and warning both. The words are a vow, a threat, a plea all wrapped into one.
"Maybe it should be." Her hands drop to her sides, fingers uncurling slowly as if releasing something she's been holding too tightly.
She turns away from me, presenting me with her back, her shoulders rigid with tension that radiates down her spine.
The line of her spine is straight and unyielding, and I know that posture intimately.
It's the same one I've seen in mirrors a thousand times, the same armor I wear when I refuse to bend, when I'd rather break than show weakness.
Seeing it reflected in her feels like looking at a distorted version of myself, and I'm not sure if that makes me proud or terrified.
I want to argue, to tell her that she doesn't get to make that decision alone, that what we have isn't something she can just walk away from.
The possessive part of me—the part that's ruled my life for as long as I can remember—wants to remind her that she's mine, that I don't let go of what belongs to me.
But the set of her spine, the way she's holding herself together through sheer force of will, tells me I've pushed enough for one night.
Another word, another step forward, and I'll shatter whatever fragile thread still connects us.
I leave without another word, the sound of the door closing behind me feeling far too final, like the sealing of a tomb.
The private room at The Golden Lion smells of expensive vodka and cigar smoke, the familiar scents doing nothing to ease the tension coiling through my shoulders.
My captains arrange themselves around the mahogany table with the practiced efficiency of men who've attended countless such meetings, their faces carefully neutral as they wait for me to speak.
I remain standing, my hands braced against the table's polished surface, and study each face in turn. These are men I've fought beside, men who've proven their loyalty through blood and sacrifice. Yet tonight, I see something in their eyes that makes my stomach tighten with unease.
Doubt.
"Congratulations, Pakhan." One of them raises his glass, his weathered face creasing into what might be a smile. "A child. A miracle."
The others echo the sentiment, glasses lifting in unison, but the word "miracle" hangs in the air like an accusation wrapped in silk.
I hear what they're not saying, see it in the glances they exchange when they think I'm not looking.
The Pakhan who survived three bullets to the chest and abdomen, who was told by multiple doctors that fathering children was impossible, suddenly has a woman pregnant.
The math doesn't add up in their minds.
"Thank you." I keep my voice level, controlled, even as rage builds beneath my skin like pressure in a sealed container. "The child is mine."
More nods. More carefully neutral expressions. But I catch the skepticism flickering across faces, quickly masked but unmistakable. They're too smart to voice their doubts directly, too aware of what questioning the Pakhan’s word could cost them. But the silence speaks volumes.
I force myself to sit, to project the calm authority that has kept me alive for two decades.
We move through the evening's business with practiced efficiency.
Territory reports. Revenue streams. The ongoing cleanup from Matvey's failed power grab.
My captains present their updates with professional detachment, but I feel the weight of their unspoken questions pressing against my skin like a physical force.
When the meeting finally adjourns, they file out with murmured goodnights and promises to follow up on various matters. All except Cyril. My second-in-command lingers by the window, his pale blond hair catching the lamplight, that jagged scar running from temple to jaw standing out in sharp relief.
The door closes behind the last captain, and silence descends like a curtain.
"Say it." I pour myself another vodka, the crystal glass cold against my palm. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it."
Cyril turns from the window, his gray eyes holding mine with the brutal honesty of a man who's earned the right to speak truth to power. "How can you be certain the child is yours?"
The question lands like a blade between my ribs, precise and devastating. I drain the vodka in one swallow, the burn doing nothing to ease the ice spreading through my chest.
"The watch data—"
"Shows she's pregnant." Cyril's voice remains carefully neutral. "It doesn't prove paternity. She could have been pregnant before the yacht party. Before the storm. Before the island."
My hands curl into fists against the table's edge.
The possibility has been circling in my mind like a vulture since I first saw that data, a thought I've been refusing to examine too closely because acknowledging it means admitting I might be wrong.
That I might be claiming another man's child out of desperate hope and sentiment.
"I know what you're thinking," Cyril continues, moving closer. "That demanding proof would destroy whatever trust exists between you. That it would prove the island changed nothing fundamental about who you are."
"Then why suggest it?" The words come out rougher than intended.
"Because your empire is built on control and calculated risk. On never trusting blindly. On verifying everything." He leans against the table, his posture deceptively casual. "A paternity test would answer the question definitively. Would silence the whispers and restore your captains' confidence."
I think of Aria's face when I demanded she come to my home, the betrayal in her dark eyes when she realized I'd been monitoring her body without consent. Asking for a paternity test would be the final nail in the coffin of whatever fragile connection we've managed to maintain.
"She'll never forgive me if I ask for proof."
"Perhaps." Cyril's expression doesn't change. "But if you don't and the child isn't yours, your enemies will use that weakness to destroy everything you've built."
The truth of his words settles over me like a weight. This is the price of power in my world. Trust is a luxury I can't afford, sentiment a weakness that gets you killed. The rational part of my brain knows Cyril is right. A simple test would answer every question.
But the part of me that Aria awakened, the man who whispered promises against her skin while the ocean whispered around us, recoils from the idea.
Demanding proof would prove that I learned nothing from those three weeks.
That I'm still the same cold bastard who kept us stranded for his own selfish reasons.
My phone vibrates against the table, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. I glance at the screen and scowl.
Matvey Ignatyev's name glows in the darkness.
I open the message with hands that have started to tremble, and the words on the screen make the room tilt sideways.
Congratulations on your miracle, Alekseev. I look forward to meeting the child. If it's yours.