Chapter 47 Eva
EVA
Iwake wrapped in Roman's arms, his chest warm against my back, his hand possessively splayed across my stomach where our child grows.
The memory of last night crashes over me with devastating intensity, and heat floods through my body despite the early morning chill seeping through the estate's windows.
I love you.
The words echo in my mind, both his and mine, raw and honest in a way that still makes my chest tight.
Roman Sokolov, Pakhan and monster, loves me.
And God help me, I love him back. The realization should terrify me, but lying here in his arms, feeling the steady rhythm of his breathing, I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Safe.
Roman stirs behind me, his hand sliding up from my stomach to cup my breast through the thin fabric of his shirt I'm still wearing.
Even half-asleep, his body responds to mine, and I feel him hardening against my lower back.
My nipples tighten immediately, and I arch into his touch with a soft moan I can't suppress.
"Good morning, solnyshko," he murmurs against my neck, his accent thick with sleep and desire. His thumb brushes over my nipple, and pleasure shoots straight to my core.
"Morning." My voice comes out breathier than I intend, and I feel his lips curve into a smile against my skin.
His hand drifts lower, sliding beneath the shirt's hem, his fingers tracing the curve of my hip. "I could stay here all day," he says, his voice rough.
The promise in his words makes my thighs clench with need. I remember how he felt inside me last night, the controlled power in his thrusts, the way he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once. My hand covers his, guiding it higher, and he groans against my throat.
But reality intrudes, as it always does. Roman's phone buzzes on the nightstand, shattering the moment. He reaches for it with visible reluctance, and I watch his expression shift from desire to cold calculation as he reads the message.
"The delegates," he says, his voice flat. "They want to meet this afternoon."
My stomach clenches with dread. "What do you think they'll say?"
"I don't know." He pulls me closer, his arms tightening around me. "But whatever happens, I'll deal with it."
The words should comfort me, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands curl slightly at his sides. He's terrified, even if he won't admit it. These men from Moscow hold his future in their hands, and after everything that's happened, I don't know which way they'll decide.
We shower together, and I have to force myself not to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth the way I've been fantasizing about. But Roman's mind is already shifting to business mode, his focus absolute as he prepares for the meeting that could determine everything.
I dress in a navy sheath dress that accommodates my growing belly, the fabric stretching across my fuller breasts in ways that make Roman's blue eyes darken with hunger when he sees me. I catch him adjusting himself discreetly.
Downstairs, Roman kisses me one more time before heading to his SUV where Lev waits.
I watch him go, memorizing the way his suit stretches across his broad shoulders, the controlled power in his movements.
He turns back once, his blue eyes finding mine across the distance, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
Then he's gone, and I'm left standing in the circular drive with a security guard I've never seen before.
He's maybe thirty, with sandy brown hair and sharp green eyes that assess me with professional detachment. His suit is expensive but not quite as tailored as Roman's men usually wear, and something about him makes my skin prickle with unease I can't quite identify.
"Mrs. Sokolov." His voice is flat, revealing nothing. "I'm Marcus. I'll be your driver today."
"Where's Viktor?" I ask, referring to the guard who usually drives me when Roman isn't available.
"Reassigned." Marcus opens the back door of the black SUV, gesturing for me to enter. "Mr. Sokolov wanted additional security today, given the circumstances."
The explanation makes sense, but something about his tone feels off. I settle into the back seat anyway, clutching my purse against my chest, trying to shake the anxiety coiling in my stomach. It's just nerves about the delegates' meeting, I tell myself. Nothing more.
The regular driver, a man named James who I've gotten to know over the past weeks, nods at me from the front seat. His presence eases some of my tension. At least he's familiar, even if Marcus isn't.
We pull away from the estate, and I try to focus on anything except the meeting happening this afternoon. I pull out my phone, needing the distraction of normal conversation, of connection to the people I love.
My first text goes to Megan.
How are things? Miss you.
Her response comes quickly.
Good! Tyler's doing better. Still heartbroken but healing. Coffee this weekend?
The mention of Tyler makes my chest ache with guilt I have no right to feel. He loved me, and I broke his heart by choosing Roman. But there was never really a choice, not from the moment Roman walked into my life and changed everything.
Definitely. I'll text you.
Next, I message Alexei, my brilliant sixteen-year-old brother.
How's Babushka? Is she eating enough?
His response takes longer.
She's good. Stronger every day. The surgery really helped. Don't worry, sestrichka. I'll take care of her.
I know he will. Alexei has always been responsible beyond his years, forced to grow up too fast by circumstances neither of us could control.
But I hate that he's sacrificing his education, his future, to care for our grandmother.
Even though I know it's the right thing, even though I understand his reasoning, it feels like another failure on my part.
I'm composing a response when I notice Marcus watching me in the rearview mirror. His green eyes are cold, calculating, and when our gazes meet, he doesn't look away. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, primitive instinct screaming that something is wrong.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
"Fine." He returns his attention to the road, but I catch him glancing at James, some silent communication passing between them that makes my stomach clench with dread.
I force myself to look out the window, to pay attention to where we're going.
We should be heading toward the financial district, toward the gleaming glass tower that houses Roman's office.
But the buildings passing by don't look familiar.
The streets are narrower here, more industrial, with fewer people visible on the sidewalks.
"Where are we going?" My hand drifts to my stomach, that protective gesture I've developed, and I see Marcus notice in the mirror.
"Shortcut," he says, his voice flat. "Traffic's bad on the main route."
The explanation should satisfy me, but it doesn't. Every instinct I possess is screaming danger, telling me to get out of this car, to call Roman, to do something. But we're moving too fast, and I'm trapped in the back seat with child locks that won't open from the inside.
My phone is still in my hand. I could call Roman, could text Lev, could do something to alert them that something's wrong. But what would I say? That I have a bad feeling? That the new security guard makes me uncomfortable? It sounds paranoid even in my own mind.
The car suddenly stops.
We're in an alley between two abandoned warehouses, the kind of place where screams wouldn't carry, where bodies could disappear without anyone noticing. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears, and my hands shake as I reach for the door handle even though I know it won't open.
Marcus turns in his seat, and the gun in his hand makes my blood run cold. The silencer attached to the barrel is professional, efficient, designed to kill without drawing attention.
"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice carries genuine regret. "Nothing personal."
Then he shoots James in the head.
The sound is muffled by the silencer, just a soft pop that seems impossibly quiet for something so devastating. Blood and brain matter spray across the windshield, and James slumps forward against the steering wheel, his eyes still open, staring at nothing.
I'm screaming. I don't remember starting, but the sound tears from my throat, raw and desperate. My hands scrabble at the door handle, trying to force it open, trying to escape. But the child locks hold firm, and I'm trapped with a killer and a corpse.
The back door opens from the outside.
Hands grab me, rough and efficient, dragging me from the SUV. I fight, kicking and clawing, my nails raking across someone's face. But there are too many of them, three men in dark clothing, their faces covered with masks. One of them produces a cloth, and the chemical smell makes my stomach turn.
Chloroform.
I try to hold my breath, try to fight, but strong hands force the cloth over my nose and mouth. The world starts to blur at the edges, darkness creeping in from all sides. My last coherent thought is of Roman, of the baby growing inside me, of the life we were just starting to build together.
Then everything goes black.