21. Via
VIA
The mattress beneath me is still warm, but Ilya’s arm is gone from my waist.
I roll over, my hand sweeping across the sheets, finding nothing. I sit up slowly, wrapping the duvet around my bare shoulders as I look toward the French doors. The curtains are pulled back just enough to let the pale, grey morning light cut across the floorboards.
I feel different, every single inch of my body, the faint ache in my thighs, the tender skin on my collarbone where his teeth had grazed me, and the strange, quiet hum in my blood. It’s a terrifying kind of peace.
Am I completely losing my mind?
I lean my head back against the carved mahogany headboard, staring at the ceiling.
Excellent job, Viallentinka. You’ve officially developed Stockholm syndrome.
You’ve fallen for the brutal, grumpy giant who blew up your wedding, murdered your fiancé, and locked you in a fortress. Truly, a romantic success story.
The dark humor doesn't stop the sudden, cold knot of panic from tightening in my throat.
I don't want to leave this bed. I don't want to run back to my father’s empty, quiet house.
But the thought of genuinely belonging to him, of standing beside a man who makes his living in the shadows of a blood-stained city, is enough to make my chest tighten.
My stomach suddenly does a nauseating flip.
The heat in my body vanishes, replaced by a cold wave of sickness that hits me fast. I throw the duvet aside, my bare feet hitting the carpet as I scramble toward the master bathroom, my knees hitting the marble tile floor as I heave over the edge of the toilet.
Nothing comes up. It’s just a dry, agonizing wrench of my stomach that leaves me gasping for air, my forehead resting against the cold porcelain as a cold sweat breaks out across my neck.
"Via?"
The bathroom door creaks open. I flinch, trying to sit up and pull the edges of my open robe together, but another wave of nausea hits me, forcing me to lean back over the bowl.
Yara steps into the room, her apron slightly dusty with flour, her kind face instantly tensing with worry as she drops to her knees beside me, her warm, motherly hand immediately rubbing the small of my back in slow, steady circles.
"Sasha, bring hot water," Yara calls out over her shoulder. "With the lemon and the fresh ginger. Quickly."
A second later, Sasha hurries into the room, carrying a silver tray with a steaming mug. She sets it on the marble counter, her eyes darting to my face before she quickly steps back, her hands clasped in front of her.
"I’m fine," I choke out, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Just... a bad piece of fish from the gala. Or maybe my body is finally rejecting your boss’s terrible breakfast coffee."
Ekaterina pops her head around the doorframe, her dark eyes wide with curiosity and panic. She’s holding a fresh stack of drawing paper against her chest. "Via, are you sick? Did Ilya hurt you? I heard him carrying you up the stairs last night."
Great, everyone is here.
Yara lets out a low, warning rumble in her throat, not looking back at her. "Miss Ekaterina, please go to the pantry. Help me find the dried chamomile. Your brother’s wife needs quiet."
"But I want to help," Ekaterina says, her bottom lip turning out in a stubborn pout that looks exactly like Ilya’s.
"And you will, Miss Ekaterina," Yara says with a smile.
Sasha gently touches Ekaterina’s shoulder, guiding her back toward the hallway with a quiet, reassuring murmur. "Come, Miss Ekaterina. Let’s leave the room for a moment."
Once the door clicks shut behind them, the bathroom is quiet, the only sound the low hum of the ventilation fan. Yara stands up, walking to the sink to wet a clean washcloth with cold water. She presses it to the back of my neck, the shock of the cold instantly clearing the heavy fog in my brain.
"How long have you been late, Viallentinka?" Yara’s voice is stern but completely devoid of judgment.
I freeze, my fingers clutching the marble edge of the counter. My mind starts to race, tracking the days, the weeks, the chaotic blur of the chapel shootout, the transfer to the estate, the gala. I should have had my cycle right around the night Ilya dragged me out of that smoking church.
It’s been nearly four weeks.
No. No, no, no.
"It’s just stress," I say, my voice rising as I try to stand up, my knees still shaking. "My entire life was blown to pieces just a few months ago, Yara. My body is just... adjusting."
Yara reaches into the deep pocket of her apron, pulls out a small, rectangular cardboard box with a familiar blue logo, and sets it quietly on the marble counter under a dry towel. She taps the edge of the box with her thumb.
"Sasha found this in the medical cabinet in the lower wing," Yara says, her eyes fixed on my face. "Ilya doesn't check the inventory down there. He only cares about the bandages and the morphine. Take the test, Via. Before he comes back from the docks."
I stare at the blue box under the towel, my heart hitting my ribs like a sledgehammer. "Yara, if he finds out—"
"He won't," she says, her voice softening as she squeezes my shoulder. "But you need to know what you are carrying in this house."
She turns and walks out, closing the door softly behind her.
I’m left alone with the silence and the blue box. My hands are shaking so hard I can barely tear the plastic wrapping off the stick.
The three minutes of waiting are the longest three minutes of my life. I pace the length of the marble bathroom, my bare feet cold against the floor. I look at the storm clouds outside the window, grey and heavy, matching the dread settling into my gut.
A baby.
A child in a house where the doors are made of reinforced steel, where the halls are patrolled by men with rifles, and where the Pakhan has a list of enemies longer than my arm.
I walk back to the counter, my breath catching in my throat as I look down at the plastic stick.
Two bright, unmistakable pink lines.
I'm pregnant. With Ilya’s baby.
A cold, paralyzing terror washes over me, so thick I can barely draw air into my lungs.
If I tell him, he won't be happy. He’ll turn into a warden.
He’ll lock me in the deepest, most secure room in the north wing, surround me with thirty guards, and never let me see the sun again.
He’ll treat me like an asset he has to protect, not a wife.
He’ll turn our strange alliance back into a prison.
I grab the test, wrap it in a handful of toilet paper, and shove it deep into the bottom of the wastebasket under the linen liner. I wash my face with cold water, scrubbing my skin until my cheeks are splotched with red, trying to hide the pale terror in my eyes.
I put on a simple black sweater and my leggings and head down to the dining room.
The dining table is set for two, but Ilya is the only one there.
He’s dressed in a fresh black shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his thick, scarred forearms, his shoulder bandaged tightly beneath the cotton.
He’s reading, his brow furrowed, a half-empty mug of black coffee sitting near his hand.
He looks up when I enter, his eyes immediately tracking my movement as I sit in the chair across from him.
"You look pale." He frowns.
"I look like a woman who was dragged through a war zone forty-eight hours ago," I say, reaching for the basket of toast with a hand I have to force to remain steady. "Are you planning on reading that paper all morning, or did you actually invite me down here to watch you scowl?"
Ilya doesn't answer. He stands instead, his massive frame towering over the table. He walks around the mahogany, stopping behind my chair. Before I can turn my head, his large, warm hands come to rest on my shoulders, his fingers digging into my muscles with a firm, possessive pressure.
He leans down, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear. "You talk too much, Via."
He grabs my chin, forcing my face up, and kisses me, his tongue sliding into my mouth, leaving me completely breathless and clinging to his forearms to keep from falling out of my seat.
His scent, cedar, dark coffee, and the cold morning air floods my senses, making the panic in my stomach melt into a sudden, thick heat.
He pulls back a fraction, his thumb dragging slowly across my bottom lip, before his mouth drops to my neck.
He bites down on the sensitive skin right above my collarbone.
I let out a sharp, breathless gasp, my fingers digging into his sleeves. "Ilya... stop..."
He doesn't stop until he’s left a deep, dark purple mark right in the center of my neck, in a spot so visible no high collar or necklace is going to hide it. He pulls back, his obsidian eyes scanning the mark with a cold, primitive satisfaction.
"A reminder," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the bruised skin. "For anyone who thinks they can look at you."
"You're crazy," I pant, my hand rising to cover the mark, my skin burning where his teeth had been. "I look like I’ve been attacked by a wild animal."
"You have," he says, amusement flickering in his eyes as he walks back to his seat.
I pick up a piece of toast, my throat tight, the tiny heartbeat growing inside me making every movement feel heavy.
I need to get my mind off this.
"What are you doing about Mikhail?" I ask, the light tone from my voice vanishing as I look at his face.
Ilya pauses, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He sets it down slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Dmitri has three teams on the southern docks. We’re tracing the Vostok cargo routes, just like you suggested. If he’s in the city, we’ll find him."
"And when you find him?"
"Once we find him…" A wide smile spreads on his face as he stares intensely at me. "We make sure he stays dead this time. I’m not letting him breathe the same air as you, Via."
I look down at my plate, fighting back a smile.
His words shouldn’t make me as happy as they do.
I’m screwed.