Chapter 41
MARIYA
Isit on the edge of our bed, staring at the white plastic stick in my hand like it might explode. The bathroom light is still on behind me, casting a harsh glow across the bedroom floor. My stomach churns, but not from nausea this time. Just pure, unfiltered anxiety.
When I first started feeling sick, I'd convinced myself it was stress.
Anatoly's threats, the constant running, and the fear that never quite leaves my chest. All of it seemed like enough reason for my body to rebel.
But then last night happened. Andrey and I had sex, rough and desperate the way we both needed it, and afterward, I'd barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up everything in my stomach.
Morning sickness I'd heard of. Night sickness? That was new.
So here I am, waiting for a timer to tell me something I think I already know.
The bedroom door opens, and Andrey steps inside. His dark eyes find mine immediately, reading the tension in my shoulders and the way my fingers grip the pregnancy test too tightly. He doesn't say anything. He just crosses the room and sits beside me on the bed, close enough that our thighs touch.
His presence steadies me, even when everything else feels like it's spinning out of control.
"How long?" he asks quietly.
"Two more minutes."
He nods and reaches for my free hand, threading his fingers through mine. His palm is warm, callused from years of violence and survival. I focus on that touch, letting it anchor me while my mind races through possibilities I'd never thought I'd have to worry about.
A baby. I might be carrying Andrey's child.
The thought should terrify me. It does terrify me. But there's something else underneath the fear, but it's barely there. Just a glimmer. Fear overrides everything else.
The timer on my phone goes off, shrill and insistent. My heart slams against my ribs as I lift the pregnancy test, turning it so the little window faces me.
Two pink lines.
I let out a long, shaky breath. "I'm pregnant."
Andrey goes very still beside me. Then his hand tightens around mine, and when I glance at him, I see something bright and fierce in his expression. Happiness. Pure, unguarded happiness that makes my chest ache.
"Mariya." My name comes out rough, almost reverent. He cups my face with his free hand, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "We're having a baby."
I want to share in his joy, but all I feel is uncertainty twisting in my gut. "I don't know if I'm ready for this."
"You don't have to be ready right now." His voice is gentle in a way that only I ever get to hear. "We've got time."
"I've never even thought about having kids." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "My whole life has been running, hiding, and surviving. I don't know how to be a mother."
Andrey's gray eyes search mine, and I see understanding there. Not pity, just acceptance of where I am right now. "You don't have to decide everything today."
I nod, even though time feels like a luxury we've never had. With my father's secrets still unraveling around us and the unease with the other families, bringing a child into this mess feels reckless. Dangerous.
But the baby is already here, growing inside me, whether I'm ready or not.
Andrey pulls me against his chest, and I let myself sink into his warmth. His hand slides down to rest against my stomach, flat and protective, and warmth starts to fill the cold spots inside me.
"We should still go to the bed and breakfast," he says after a moment. "Whether we find another clue or not, we could use a break. We could make it a little vacation."
I pull back to look at him. "You think we'll find something there?"
"I think your father was careful about where he hid things. If he left a clue pointing to this place, there's a reason." His thumb traces circles against my stomach, the gesture unconscious and tender. "But even if we don't find anything, we deserve some time away from all this. Just you and me."
The idea of a vacation feels surreal. I've forgotten what it's like to just exist without constantly looking over my shoulder. But maybe Andrey's right. Maybe we need this.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Let's go."
The bed and breakfast is located in a small town that looks like it was pulled straight out of the 1950s. As we drive down Main Street, I press my face closer to the window, taking in details that feel almost too perfect to be real.
There's no trash on the roads or in the alleyways. Every lawn is freshly mowed and edged with precision. Flower boxes hang from windows, overflowing with bright blooms. Kids ride their bikes down the sidewalk, laughing and calling to each other without a care in the world.
It's nice. Unsettlingly nice.
"This place is weird," I mutter.
Andrey glances at me, his lips twitching with amusement. "Weird how?"
"Too clean. Too perfect." I gesture at a group of children playing hopscotch on a driveway. "Where are the broken windows? The graffiti? The general sense of urban decay?"
"Not everywhere is a war zone, Mariya."
"I know that." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly defensive. "It's just… different."
Different and a little bit wonderful, if I'm being honest. The kind of place where people probably know their neighbors' names and leave their doors unlocked at night.
We pull up to the bed and breakfast, a charming Victorian house painted pale yellow with white trim. A wraparound porch holds rocking chairs and hanging baskets of ferns. It looks like something out of a magazine.
Andrey parks and comes around to open my door, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk up the front steps. The gesture is protective, possessive, and I lean into it by instinct, without conscious thought. It's natural and real.
Inside, the owner greets us with a warm smile and checks us into our room.
She's an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes, the type who probably bakes cookies for guests and knows everyone's business.
She doesn't ask questions about why we're here or where we're from, just hands over the key and tells us breakfast is served at eight.
Our room is on the second floor, decorated in soft blues and creams with a four-poster bed that dominates the space. Lace curtains filter the afternoon sunlight, and fresh flowers sit on the dresser. It's cozy and romantic, the kind of place couples come to celebrate anniversaries.
I set my bag down and move to the window, looking out over the quiet street below. My hand drifts to my stomach again, a habit I've already developed in the few hours since seeing those two pink lines.
Andrey comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. "What are you thinking?"
"That I don't know if I can do this." The admission comes out quieter than I intended. "Be a mother. Raise a child in this world."
"You're stronger than you think." His breath is warm against my ear. "And you won't be doing it alone."
I turn in his arms, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. "What if I'm terrible at it?"
"You won't be." His certainty is absolute, unshakable. "You're fierce and protective and loyal. You'll be an amazing mother."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it hurts. But the fear is still there, coiled tightly in my chest.
Andrey kisses my forehead, then steps back. "Come on. Let's explore the town. We can search the room later."
We spend the afternoon wandering through the small downtown area like tourists.
Andrey buys me ice cream from a shop with a striped awning, and we sit on a bench eating our cones while watching people pass by.
The vanilla is sweet and cold, melting on my tongue, and for a few minutes, I let myself just enjoy it.
We stop in a gift shop filled with handmade crafts and local artwork. I pick up a small wooden carving of a bear, running my fingers over the smooth surface. Andrey watches me with a warm smile. My heart flutters at the sight. It's not often I get to see this side of him.
"You should get it," he says.
"Why?"
"Because you like it." He takes the carving from my hands and carries it to the counter, paying before I can protest.
Later, we have a late lunch at an outdoor cafe with checkered tablecloths and mismatched chairs. I order a sandwich that I barely taste, my thoughts scattered and unfocused. My hand keeps drifting to my stomach, and I catch Andrey watching the gesture with that same soft expression.
"Are you happy?" I ask suddenly. "About the baby?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no doubt. Just the simple truth.
"Even with everything going on?"
"Especially with everything going on." He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "This baby is proof that we're building something, Mariya. Something that's ours. Something good."
I want to share his optimism, but all I can think about are my father's secrets and the constant danger that follows us everywhere. "What if we can't keep them safe?"
"We will." His grip tightens. "I'll burn the whole world down before I let anyone hurt you or our child."
The violence in his voice should scare me. Instead, it's comforting. Because I know he means it. Andrey would destroy anyone who threatened our family without a second thought.
Maybe that's what our child needs. Not a perfect world, but parents who will fight like hell to protect them.
That evening, we return to the bed and breakfast as the sun sets. The room is bathed in golden light, peaceful and quiet. But we're not here for romance tonight. We're here to search.
Andrey starts with the obvious places—drawers, closets, and behind picture frames. I check the bathroom, running my hands along the baseboards and testing for loose tiles. Nothing.
"There has to be something here," I mutter, frustration building. "Why else would my father leave a clue pointing to this place?"
"We'll find it." Andrey's voice is calm and steady. He's on his hands and knees now, checking under the bed.
I join him, lying flat on my stomach to peer into the shadows. That's when I notice it. A section of the floorboard that doesn't quite line up with the others.
"Andrey. Look."
He shifts closer, his shoulder pressing against mine as he examines the board. Then he pulls a knife from his boot and wedges it into the gap, prying carefully.
The board comes loose with a soft creak.
Inside the hollow space beneath is a single gold key.