Page 29 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

“That’s not what I asked.”

He’s quiet long enough that I think he’s going to dodge the question, but then he answers. “She reminds me of Selene.”

That’s all he says. I don’t push for more, because I know that’s as close to an answer as I’m ever going to get, and it’s all I need.

He drops me back at my car. “Well, that was fun,” he says before I get out. “Consider it payment.”

“For what?”

“Bogdan. Something’s going on between him and the old man. I don’t know what he’s been promised, but he’s hungry for it, whatever it is, and you know what a hateful little shit he is.”

“Noted.”

“Watch your step, Yakov.”

Then he’s gone, taillights disappearing down the street, and I’m alone with a torn shirt, a split knuckle, and a piece of information worth more than anything I would have gotten out of an hour of talking.

I’ve had Sergei keeping an eye on the house while I’m not there, in case this meeting with Yaroslav went to shit. There’s a text from him on my phone checking in, telling me everything’s alright on his security feed, but knowing it and feeling it are two different things. The whole drive back, all I can think about is Raya, and whether she fell asleep on the sofa waiting for me, and how many miles are left between us.

Chapter 14 - Raya

The sling came off days ago. He announced this by simply ripping it off one morning, tossing it onto the kitchen counter, and rotating his thick shoulder with a slight wince. The wound itself has finally closed—I’ve had my eyes on it twice a day—leaving behind a raised, wicked pink scar that makes him look even more dangerous than he already did. The surrounding muscle is still tight, knotted, and prone to pulling if he moves wrong. Naturally, being stubborn as a mule, he’s been moving wrong on purpose because he refuses to admit any kind of limitation.

Which is why I’ve been massaging it. It started practically. Scar tissue needs to be worked out, or it sets wrong and limits your mobility long-term—household knowledge when you grow up in a Bratva family where gunshot wounds are basically a rite of passage—for the men at least. But at this point, we both know it’s not purely practical anymore. Every morning, he sits shirtless on the edge of the mattress, and I stand between his knees, working my thumbs deep into his tight shoulder muscle. He goes still and quiet under my hands. We don’t talk about the fact that I’m doing this willingly, or the way his jaw tightly clenches every time my fingers trail too close to his neck.

“One week left,” I mutter, my thumbs pressing hard into a stubborn knot near his collarbone.

Yakov’s eyes track up to mine, dark and intense in the morning light. “You counting down the days, malysh?”

“Simon’s deadline is ticking in my head, yes,” I reply, trying to keep my voice flat as I intentionally press a little harder on the knot. “I’m sure my brothers are planning a very dramatic welcome-home party for me.”

He lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates right against my fingertips. “Let them. I’m the one bringing you back. If Simon wants a piece of me, he knows where to find me.”

I look down at him, my hands slowing against his skin. I should want to go home. I do want to go home—I miss the chaotic, deafening noise of too many Volkovs trapped in one room, and Sofie blowing up my phone every hour despite literally being a few doors down the hallway. But the terrifying truth is, in the middle of being kidnapped, forced into a marriage, and shot at, this safe house has been the first sustained quiet I’ve had in my entire life. I didn’t know until I got here how badly I was drowning in my family’s expectations—the endless family dinners I’m expected to host or attend, being the one who smooths things over when tempers flare, being on call every day for whichever niece or nephew needs looking after. It’s not that I begrudge it, they’re my family, and I love them, and I especially love the kids. It’s just made forging my own path kind of difficult

Yesterday, I finally admitted to Selene on the phone that hiding out with Yakov had basically been like a vacation. She laughed so hard she practically choked. “You are so incredibly cooked, Raya,” she’d wheezed. “I don’t know what that means,” I’d lied.

But I did know. I absolutely did. I think I’m falling for Yakov, and the realization is terrifying. It’s not that he’s the son of the man trying to harm me. It’s the fact that I don’t know how much of this is real. He feels like the only safe thing in my world, but he’s made it that way, hasn’t he?

“You’re quiet today,” Yakov grunts. He doesn’t move his good arm to stop me, but his gaze sharpens. “What’s running through that pretty head of yours?”

“Just wondering if you’re going to miss me when my family drags me back,” I banter back, lifting an eyebrow. “No more free massages. No more anyone to criticize your terrible coffee-making skills.”

Yakov slides his left hand up to anchor against my hip, his fingers biting gently into the fabric of my leggings, pulling me into the space between his thighs. “I’m not letting you go back to living under your brothers’ thumbs. You’re my wife, Raya. We’re going to your family’s compound to hand Simon and Matvei the weapons the alliance needs to bury my father, but make no mistake—you’re mine; you stay with me, wherever that will be.”

My heart does a dangerous stutter in my chest. Husband. Wife. The terms still sound insane, but when he says them with that dark, absolute certainty, the terrifying reality of it hits me full-force. It isn’t a game to him. It isn’t a temporary shield to wave in his father’s face. He actually means it. He intends to keep me forever, and the scariest part is that the thought doesn’t horrify me the way it did weeks ago. After a lifetime of people deciding things for me, I should hate a man telling me where I belong. Instead, I’m standing here kind of turned on by the idea of being his. Not that I’d let him know that. So I let out a sharp, mocking breath and plant both of my hands firmly against his good shoulder, giving him a hard, indignant shove backward. “Own me? Like a piece of cattle, Yakov? You think because I signed a piece of paper under duress that you get to dictate where I live?”

Yakov barely sways from the push, his eyes locking onto mine with a dark, amused glint that tells me he loves it when I fight back. He reaches up with his left hand, his fingers wrapping around my waist, pulling me right back into the space between his thighs.

“Not like cattle, malysh.” His voice drops to a low, gravelly vibration that makes my anger melt. “Like my wife. Your brothers can roar all they want, but they don’t own you anymore either. If they want to test how far I’ll go to keep what’s mine, I’m more than happy to show them.”

“You’re very arrogant for a man who still can’t put his jacket on without help,” I whisper, leaning into his space enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“Try me,” he counters, his eyes darkening as they drop to my lips. “See if I need two hands to keep you right where you belong.”

I pull my hand back with a sharp exhale, my face burning as I pretend to inspect his bandage. “Shut up and let me finish your shoulder.”

That evening, the playful banter dissolves back into that dense, electric tension that’s been building between us since the night we crossed the line. We’re on the couch, the TV playing some mindless action movie neither of us is watching. I notice, not for the first time, that I’m sitting on his side of the couch. I don’t even remember moving there. My body automatically gravitates toward him. He’s leaning back, his left arm draped along the top of the cushions behind my head. He isn’t touching me yet, but his knuckles are brushing the very tips of my hair, sending tiny, electric jolts straight down my spine. The TV is a mindless blur of noise. Every time he shifts his weight, his thigh presses against mine, firm and solid through our clothes, a reminder of the way he held me pinned beneath him nights ago.