28. Emma
Emma
Rus stands across from me holding one of the pregnancy tests, his expression unreadable in a way I’ve never seen before. Usually, I can tell when he’s angry, amused, irritated, or plotting something. Right now he looks almost stunned.
Which somehow scares me more.
The shopping bag sits forgotten on the floor. Neither of us moves. Neither of us seems capable of finding the right words.
Finally, he utters, “How late?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What?”
His eyes close, grip tightening around the test in his fist. “How late are you?”
That’s it?
Not, are you serious?
Not, is it mine?
Not, how the hell did this happen?
Something hot and defensive flares inside me. “I didn’t know you cared.”
The words come out sharper than intended, and I have no idea what I mean by them. Do I want him to be angry, to rage through the suite we’ve been living in for almost a month?
Rus’s eyes narrow. Then he crosses the room.
I take an involuntary step back. He catches my wrist before I get far and pulls me against him. Not enough to hurt, but enough to stop my retreat. He’s done this, we’ve done this, so many times that it’s oddly comforting, which only makes more unbidden tears swim. God, I hate crying.
His free hand settles against my waist while his gaze drags slowly down my body. Not with the heat of every night we’ve spent together from the first, but with concern and calculation.
Those old instincts flood back into my system.
Distrust. My eyes fly over his features, trying to analyze and figure out what he’s thinking and what his next move is.
How can I get out of this? That age-old, logical question, the one that used to have me counting exits and making sure my back was always to a wall, not a person.
His pale eyes linger on my stomach. My hands start shaking, and I hate that he can see it, so I ball them into fists. For all my bravado, all my arguments and stubbornness, I suddenly feel completely lost.
Rus notices. His expression shifts.
“Emma.”
I look away. The concern in his voice makes everything worse, tears tracking down my cheeks again. I wrench a wrist away from his light grip, angrily wiping at them. His hold on me eases slightly, a hand caressing down my lower back.
“Look at me.”
I force myself to meet his gaze. Something about the intensity there makes me flinch and look away, and it’s a mistake because of course, he notices that too.
His entire body goes rigid. “Why did you do that?”
I shake my head. “Do what?”
“You flinched.”
The accusation hangs heavy between us, and I can’t deny it. But I can’t look at him either.
“Emma.” His voice drops lower. Ruslan Smirnov is back, demanding answers. “What aren’t you telling me?”
For a moment, I consider lying. But I’m too exhausted, and the truth slips out before I can stop it.
“I’ve been pregnant before.”
I’ve never said it aloud—not to my sister, not to my parents. It was part of the reason I ran and then kept running. Rus’s hand falls away from my waist.
“What?” The word comes out rough. Months of shame crash over me all at once. The memories have never really gone away; I’ve just gotten better at avoiding them.
“It was a while ago. And…didn’t last very long.”
His expression darkens. I already know where this is going.
“Was it Andrei’s?”
I nod, unable to hide it anymore, not just from Ruslan but from myself and the rest of the world. I’m tired and freaked out, and I’ve so desperately been wanting to start over since fucking up in Miami that the truth just spills out of me now.
The room seems to cool by several degrees.
“Tell me.” The command is quiet, and I hate how much it affects me. I wrap my arms around myself.
“It happened right before he broke things off. Maybe it was one of the reasons why, I don’t know.” My voice sounds distant, detached. Like I’m talking about someone else. It’s reminiscent of every conversation I had in the small clinic Andrei’s assistant shepherded me to.
“I found out really early. I was terrified, but also a little excited, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think we were ready, but I didn’t think he’d—”
I break off; the words sticking in my throat. The memory of how angry Andrei was and the way he shoved me away when I told him, like he wanted nothing to do with me, and started texting immediately, not bothering to ask if I was okay. Or if I even wanted it.
“He made the decision for both of us. He said it would ruin everything. His career, his future, his image.”
Rus looks like he’s preparing to commit murder, chest heaving slowly under the perfectly crisp beige t-shirt he’s wearing.
“He arranged everything,” I whisper. “The appointment. The paperwork. All of it.”
I stand perfectly still, not sure what comes next. My body is in reverse, back to Andrei’s penthouse all those months ago, aching with his bruising grip, trembling with anxiety. My breath feels seized in my chest, and Rus doesn’t move for several seconds.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I can almost see the thoughts moving behind his pale eyes, each one darkening his expression further. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously quiet.
“I am going to kill him.”
Despite everything, despite the panic clawing at my insides and the uncertainty threatening to drown me, I almost laugh.
“Get in line.”
His gaze snaps to mine. I’m not smiling. Neither is he.
Rus sets the test carefully on the coffee table as if it’s fragile. Maybe it is. Maybe everything is. Then he turns back toward me.
“Listen to me, Emma.” His voice remains calm, but there is a force beneath it that commands my full attention. “He had no right. He had no right to make that decision for you. No right to pressure you. No right to tell you what your future should look like.”
Something inside my chest twists painfully. All these months later, hearing someone say it is everything I didn’t expect and everything I’ve needed. I’ve spent so long convincing myself it wasn’t that bad that I forgot how angry I used to be.
Rus takes a step closer, not enough to crowd me, but just enough to be close.
“If you had wanted that, it would have been your choice. And if you didn’t? Still your choice.”
He exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair. Then his gaze drops briefly toward my stomach.
When his eyes return to mine, something has changed.
The rage is still there, and so is the possessiveness, but beneath both is something softer.
“If you want to keep this baby,” he says quietly, “I will do anything for you.”
My heart stutters.
“Rus—”
“Anything. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what changes. I don’t care what plans have to be altered.”
My throat tightens, and he steps closer again, tentatively closing the distance between us. But not touching me. Everything in me wants to reach out to him.
“If this is what you want, then I will take care of both of you.”
“Why?” The question escapes before I can stop it. His eyes narrow, as if the answer should be obvious. Then he looks away, hiding…something.
“I don’t know.” His laugh is humorless. “Perhaps because I’m selfish.”
“Rus.”
“Perhaps because the thought of someone forcing you into anything makes me want to tear Denver apart.”
My chest aches because I believe him—every word. Which makes this both harder and easier. I sink onto the edge of the sofa, head crowded with thoughts that I can’t get organized.
A baby. A future. One I hadn’t planned, but then, for the past two years I’ve been operating on autopilot—ready to run, unsure of what’s next.
“I need time.” The admission tumbles out of me, meant as much for myself as for him. Rus takes a slow breath, but doesn’t react. At least not right away.
Then, there’s a shuttering; his eyelids droop, just slightly, and he takes a subtle step back. The fact that hurts surprises me.
“Okay.” That’s it; nothing more.
Feeling like I can’t breathe, I explain haphazardly, “I need time to think.”
“You have it.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
He nods. “Then think.”
There’s still a tremor running through my hands when I look down at them, and then at the discarded bag on the floor. Four positive tests; one yet to finish. Should I even bother?
When I finally look up, Rus has moved to the far side of the suite. The physical distance between us isn’t much; ten feet, maybe. But it feels enormous.
For weeks we’ve been fighting, flirting, arguing, chasing revenge, and stumbling into one another despite every reason not to. For weeks I’ve been resisting the urge to want him to wrap an arm around me at night and pull me close in his sleep.
This is just a job; a contract. It’ll be over soon.
That’s all it has been. Until now.
Now there is something far more frightening between us.