Page 49 of Arranged for the Russian Pakhan

That shuts him up. Unfortunately, it shuts everyone else up, too. No longer are any of them able to pretend nothing’s amiss. As is to be expected, dinner doesn’t last much longer than that. Nevertheless, I make sure to add, just for good measure, a final jab: “If anyone needs me, my wife and I will be in my study sharing a fucking nightcap.”

When I look over at Darya, a question in my eyes, all she responds with is a nod. She looks almost somber. There’s no quip from her, no addition, not even a shared smile. She doesn’t say a word all the way down the hallway, matching my stride.

The lull lasts past my opening the door to let her in first and walking to the bar set-up in the corner of the room. She isn’t even looking at me. If she were, I’d be able to feel it. It’s peculiar, is what it is. She likes to watch me. I fucking love that she watches me when I’m not watching her do it. In its absence, there is a void that’s dark and cold and bleak.

I can’t tolerate it any longer. Pivoting sharply, I storm over to her with her drink in one hand and mine in the other. I want her to notice that I remembered to pour out mezcal for her. That I’m aware she doesn’t like whiskey and I fucking care about that.

“Did I do something to upset you?” I ask.

Darya looks up at me, sunken in the corner of my couch. Her gaze drops only momentarily, taking in the glasses in my hands. The look on her face isn’t one I’ve seen before, and I can’t fucking translate it.

I suppose I can take that as a resounding Yes.

“Just tell me,” I insist. “I can take it.”

There’s such a heavy hush that’s spread through the room; every breath feels like swallowing shards of glass. This is what she has reduced me to. The least she can do is be honest with me.

I knock my drink back and slam the glass down viciously on the end table by her side. “Tell me,” I roar, at the end of my goddamn tether.

Darya just stares on, with that undecipherable look on her face.

Until, finally, she says, “I can’t drink that because I’m six weeks pregnant, Anton. I found out last week. I have since confirmed it with a blood test. You may have the rest of the evening to be surprised.”

Such calm, matter-of-fact words. Spoken so flatly, devoid of any hike in pitch or cadence. This is what it is, her tone says.

In a handful of these words, she rips the ground beneath my feet wide open. I’m too frozen to even plummet to my knees.

Chapter 17 - Darya

For the first time since those two lines cropped up on the series of sticks that I’d lined up on the countertop of the atelier bathroom, one after the other, it finally sinks in: I’m pregnant. I’m six weeks pregnant. I’m going to be a mama.

A belated realization, to be sure. And it has to fight my processing this wherewithal in the face of it, right here, in this moment.

I’m stunned by how calmly the words come out of my mouth. My voice doesn’t waver over a single syllable. I’m as sedate and steady as the nurse who took my blood at the hospital two days ago. Or maybe I’m steady the way Mother Earth is, knowing she must bear the impact of man’s choices, and is built to withstand that burden. To an extent, at least.

When all is said and done, it’s the notion of an extent that scares me the most. I’ve been aware of the baseline of any situation I’ve ever been in, be it by choice or circumstance, since I was a little girl. On any occasion I haven’t been, I’ve worked to change that as swiftly as possible. Gathering my bearings has always been important to me. I’ve always had a plan, and the subsequent steps to achieve it within a reasonable time and plenty of fallback strategies. But this? This situation isn’t one I ever foresaw for myself. I’ve no more yearned for it with a palm cradling my aging womb than I’ve harbored any great, bristling contempt for the idea.

Family has always been a given to me. That’s the Yuri way. I’ve always known us to be a comically large brood. I suppose the if it happens, it happens approach has been fine for me.

Until now.

Now, I am scared. I know I am. I’ve known it since the answer appeared on that first pregnancy test, showing me my fate. I understand that, because I can count on one hand the number of times in my life I’ve felt scared, most would assume it would be difficult for me to recognize the feeling. They’d be wrong. It’s chillingly obvious to me that I’m scared the way little children are when they wake in the middle of the night, shaking, from a nightmare. All week, I’ve been walking around full of this spiky fear in my chest, going through the motions of my days, and unable to sleep through the night. I’m scared. There’s no parent to comfort me. I’m going to be the parent.

Me, and—

I stare at him. This man, who’s been trying to reel me back towards him all week, trying to catch my eye after every kiss he steals. Going far enough to defend me to a man who isn’t just his uncle, but also his elder and pseudo-father and primary advisor, with more heat than I’ve heard him employ with another person before. Let alone a person he admires. Whose opinion he respects, yet vocally rejected—to marry me, and now, to demand respect on my behalf.

It’s of little consequence whether or not I actually needed him to come to my defense. It’s the fact that he did it. He stood up for me. He’s tried to protect me. He likes to be with me. Maybe this won’t be as cataclysmic as I’ve been dreading all week.

Maybe it’s different now, between us.

“Anton?”

“What do you want to do about it?” he asks me, in the most hollow tone of voice I’ve ever heard from him. It kills me that that’s saying something.

No, I think. Please. No.

“‘It’?” I choke on a laugh, incredulity a rock in my throat. “Oh, you mean our baby. That it?”