Emma
Our second full day in the cabin feels strangely normal, considering the revelations from the morning before. Sleeping was restless, but waking was easy. As was watching Rus crack eggs into a cast iron pan and move around the cabin that should feel too small to hold him, but is somehow just right.
After everything that has happened over the last few weeks, I never thought I’d find myself sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup truck while Rus drives us through a mountain town that looks like it belongs on a postcard. I don’t ask where the truck came from; the caretaker, I’m assuming.
West River is small enough that I almost miss it when we come around a bend in the road.
Nestled between pine-covered slopes and a winding river, the town consists of a handful of historic brick buildings, a grocery store, two cafés directly across from one another, and what appears to be a combination hardware store and bait shop.
People wave at each other. Nobody seems to be hiding a criminal empire.
It’s refreshing.
“You’re staring.”
I glance toward Rus.
“I’m judging your taste in hideouts.”
“The consensus?”
“The jury is still out.”
The smile that threatens his mouth makes something warm unfurl in my chest. God help me. I like him, and that still catches me off guard sometimes.
The clinic sits on the edge of town beside a small pharmacy and a veterinary office. It’s modest but well-maintained, with flower boxes beneath the windows and a handmade wooden sign hanging outside.
Not exactly the sort of place I’d expect a Bratva leader to visit, but Ruslan also seems like a man who can make do with the resources at hand. And he’s insisting that I see a doctor.
Within twenty minutes of arriving, we’re ushered into an exam room. I don’t think strings have been pulled, but I can’t rule out the possibility. No one seems to bat an eye at his Burberry jacket, despite the fact that they’re in Carhartt.
The doctor arrives shortly afterward. She’s a woman in her late fifties with silver hair, hiking boots, and absolutely no interest in being impressed by Ruslan Smirnov.
I like her immediately.
Especially when she spends approximately ten seconds looking at him before saying, “You can sit down. Looming isn’t helping anybody.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Rus actually looks offended.
The appointment passes in a blur of questions and paperwork. First day of my last period? What symptoms am I experiencing so far? Is Mr. Smith the father, or just here for emotional support?
That last one, she shot him a narrow glance.
When the doctor confirms the pregnancy, my stomach flips despite already knowing. Some irrational part of me had apparently remained convinced that the tests were wrong.
They weren’t.
“Based on your dates, you’re approximately five weeks along.”
Five weeks. It’s a tangible timeline, one that I’m slightly confused by until she explains implantation, fertilization, everything that comes after; leading right to the whisper of a life inside me.
Rus remains stoic, though he leans forward with his elbows braced. “What about an ultrasound?” he asks curtly.
She doesn’t look directly at him, jotting down notes. Instead, she says: “It’s a bit too early. We’d have you come back in about four or five more weeks.”
“Is it possible to have one done today? We’re not permanent residents, and would like some reassurance.”
I sit stock-still, not sure how she’ll respond to his polite but firm request. She turns to him with appraising eyes, tips her head, and considers.
“You’re lucky. We had a cancellation today. I can take a look, but we likely won’t see anything.”
When she explains what’ll come next—the drape, having to undress, slightly warmed gel, and the wand—I can feel the blush heating my cheeks. Rus clears his throat uncomfortably.
“I can step out—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in quickly, feeling a tumble of anxiety and insecurity.
I don’t want the doctor to think this was some kind of accident, a one-night stand, even though that’s exactly what it is.
I want her to see us as a possibility, though I hastily stand as soon as the door is shut and shuck off my pants, not pursuing why I might want her to see us that way.
“Not like you haven’t seen this already,” I mutter. Rus has his eyes averted anyway, and dutifully takes my folded jeans when I hand them over before settling back on the bed.
Moments later there’s a knock, and then minutes later the doctor’s face is unsurprised.
“It’s simply too early. But there’s a gestational sac, which I’d expect. You’re definitely pregnant. Whenever you get home, call your local OB and let them know how far along you are. They’ll get you in on the right timeline.”
I nod. Beside me, Rus watches the screen like it contains state secrets. Even though there isn’t anything to see except for a roundish shape, I have to squint to focus on it.
“Everything appears normal so far.”
Relief washes through me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear those words.
The doctor continues explaining things, discussing timelines, follow-up appointments, nutrition, and what to expect over the coming weeks.
Then her expression sharpens slightly.
“And before anyone gets any ideas...”
Her gaze shifts directly to Rus. Uh-oh.
“I’d like to make something very clear. Any decisions regarding this pregnancy belong to her.”
The sudden quiet feels awkward, but she sits through it easily. Ruslan sits back, head tipped back, and nods. “Of course.”
I know exactly why she’s saying it. She doesn’t know our history, that he’s already made it clear the choice is mine. She doesn’t know about Andrei or the past abortion I went through in a whirlwind, not even able to decide what—if anything—I wanted.
She sees an intimidating, wealthy man in an expensive coat and assumes she needs to establish boundaries.
Fair.
“I am aware of that,” Rus says, leveling her with that gaze. The one I’ve seen him use with his guards, or when he’s having certain conversations on the phone not related to the fashion business.
The doctor looks unconvinced. “I want to hear her say it.”
I purse my lips tightly, trying to hold in an abrupt laugh. Beside me, Rus narrows his eyes.
The poor woman doesn’t appear remotely intimidated. In fact, she seems almost pleased by his irritation.
I finally lose the battle and laugh, being careful not to knock the flimsy drape off my lap.
“I like you,” I tell her honestly. “Too bad we can’t stay in West River. But yes, I know. And Rus supports that too.”
The doctor seems appeased, at least for now, and excuses herself after handing me some wipes. Once she steps out, the reality of our situation sets in.
The problems waiting for us outside these walls still exist.
Andrei still exists.
The future remains uncertain.
The baby changes everything.
But as I sit in a tiny mountain clinic just after a stubborn doctor gave a feared criminal a lecture about bodily autonomy, I find myself smiling. And for a little while, that’s enough.
* * *
The drive back to the cabin is quieter than the drive into town.
The mountains seem softer somehow beneath the afternoon sun; the slopes painted in full autumn colors. I remember this season from the almost-year I lived here, and find myself missing it. A few aspens flash yellow-gold on a hillside as we drive by.
I spend most of the drive trying not to think too hard.
Rus keeps both hands on the steering wheel, unusually silent. Every now and then I catch him glancing toward me, his expression thoughtful.
Eventually, he clears his throat.
The sound immediately makes me suspicious.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded like you were getting ready to say something.”
A long pause follows. Then he sighs.
“What are you thinking?”
The question catches me off guard. I turn toward him.
“What?”
“What are you thinking?” he repeats. “You’ve been staring out that window for thirty minutes.”
I look away again. The truth feels dangerous, and I try to tamp it down as the trees blur past outside.
“I’m on the fence.”
His grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
“About the baby?”
I nod. The words come slowly, carefully: “I’m surprised by how much I want it.” Saying it aloud makes my throat tighten unexpectedly. “I mean…we don’t really know each other.”
It’s been a month, just over, since we met. What I’m not saying is, We shouldn’t really know each other, and it freaks me out how okay I feel about sharing a child with you.
When I first saw those positive tests, fear had drowned out everything else. Since then, another feeling has begun surfacing beneath the panic.
Hope.
A cautious, fragile sort of hope.
Beside me, Rus says nothing. He’s just listening, which I’ve found to be a rare trait in a man, let alone a crime boss.
“I’m scared,” I admit.
That earns a glance.
“Of what?”
I laugh softly. “Seriously?” When his expression remains stubbornly patient, I just shake my head and say, “Everything. I’m scared of becoming someone’s mother.
I’m scared of making mistakes. I’m scared of bringing a child into a situation like this.
” My hand gestures vaguely between us. “And my family—they think I have a job in California. They have no idea I’m here, let alone pregnant. ”
Then I force myself to say the hardest part.
“And I’m scared of tying myself to you.”
The truck is now silent. I immediately regret the honesty. Not because it isn’t true, but because I don’t want to hurt him—which feels insane. Not once in my career with the FBI did I consider the feelings of a criminal, yet here I am.
After several seconds, Rus nods.
“I understand.”
The simple acceptance surprises me. I had expected irritation, maybe anger, especially after how second-hand he was treated in the clinic. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the road and tells me in a steady tone, “You should be.”
“What?”
“You should be cautious.” The words sound almost reluctant. “Having a child with someone is permanent.”
“I know.”
I look over. His expression has gone distant, thoughtful again, though a little sad.
“If you decide not to continue the pregnancy, I will respect that.”
My chest tightens.
“And if I do?”
This time his answer comes immediately.
“I will do everything I can to be a good father.”
Emotion catches me off guard. Something about the certainty in his voice, the complete lack of hesitation. Even now.
Even after everything.
“What if I don’t want you?”
The question slips out before I can stop it, a product of my logical mind trying to parse through a problem that’s more emotion than reason.
The answer takes longer, but it comes eventually: “Then I will still do everything I can for the child.” He finally looks over, meeting my eyes. “No matter what happens between us.”
The sincerity there nearly undoes me. For a moment, I’m concerned by how easily I accept that answer. He’s a Pakhan, after all, running a small empire in Santa Barbara that trades in escort services and smuggled goods.
He held me hostage. Made me sign a contract. Ruslan Smirnov gets what he wants.
So would he really step back and let us go that easily?
The idea of holding power over that kind of man—a man who crossed state lines for revenge and somehow ended up talking about parenthood instead—is dizzying and delicious at the same time.
My gaze drops to my hands because if I look at him right now, I might say something reckless. Something honest.
The truth is that the baby isn’t the only reason I’m hesitating. I’m already tied to Rus in ways that have nothing to do with this pregnancy.
I bite the inside of my lip and turn back toward the window before the words can escape.
The most terrifying part of this isn’t wondering whether I want this child. It’s realizing that I’m pretty sure I want him, too.