Page 30 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

I lean my head back against the cushions, staring at the screen, but the question I’ve been hiding since the day he took me finally slips out.

“Did you know?” I ask quietly.

Yakov shifts beside me, his long legs stretched out. “Know what?”

“Yaroslav. When you turned your back on him in Clemet Street that day. Did you actually know he wouldn’t shoot you?”

The room goes quiet. Yakov takes his time to answer. “I knew he’d have to choose between our father’s orders and me,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “And I knew which one he’d choose.”

“How could you be so sure? The damage your father did to Selene. How he has tried to poison everything between you growing up. How could you know?”

“Because Yaroslav is my brother,” Yakov says it without sentimentality; it’s a hard, absolute fact. “Alek tried to fracture us our entire lives. Separate rooms, separate training, pitting us against each other for a scrap of his approval. But he failed. I turned my back on a loaded gun because I knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger. He is more than my brother Raya; he is my twin. I know his soul; it’s the same as mine.”

A cold shiver races down my spine at the thought of how different it could have been. The loyalty between the twins is solid and beautiful. I grew up surrounded by brothers who would bleed for me without a second thought, but their loyalty is loud and fueled by family pride. This is something else entirely. Alek took a sledgehammer to the bond between his sons for nearly thirty years, trying to forge them into solitary weapons, and he didn’t even leave a scratch.

Before my thoughts start to spiral, Yakov’s large hand slides up to the back of my neck. I freeze, my breath catching. His palm is warm, spanning the entire base of my skull. For a second, he holds me there, then his thumb begins to move in slow, firm circles against my skin, melting away the tight, knotted tension I’ve been carrying since the day of the shootout. It feels so goddamn good I inadvertently let out a soft sigh.

I lean backward, pressing myself against his side. The TV screen flickers, throwing shadows across his face. I look at his mouth, remembering the wicked, possessive way he took me a few nights ago, and a sudden, desperate ache blooms deep in my stomach. In seven days, the family war machine is going to spin back to life, and we will be thrown right back into the blood and politics of our families. I am not ready for any of it. I want to stay right here in the dark. I want this.

I turn my head slightly. “Yakov?”

His thumb stops moving, his entire body going rigid against mine as he feels the warmth of my breath against him. “Yeah, malysh?”

“I’m tired,” I whisper.

Yakov’s grip on the back of my neck tightens, his gray eyes flashing with raw, predatory hunger as he looks down at me. “Do you want to go to bed?”

“Yes.”

Yakov doesn’t waste another second. He slides his left arm under my knees, scooping my body effortlessly against his chest despite his injured shoulder, and carries me down the hall into the dark.

Chapter 15 - Yakov

Subtlety has never been my father’s strong suit. Which is funny, considering his legendary reputation is built on that myth—the Ghost, the shadow, the phantom who executes hits and makes people disappear without leaving a single trace. But I grew up under the same roof as Alek Mykros, so I know the truth. His subtlety is nothing but a performance for people who’ve never seen what happens when something of his goes missing. He is a furious, petty little man who cannot tolerate losing anything he considers his property, and reason is the first thing to go out the window the moment it’s personal. He lost Selene and the twins, having been firmly put in his place by Simon Volkov. He’s now realized he’s lost his grip on me, and now that Yaroslav will have officially broken the news that I am married to Raya and never stepping foot inside his compound again, the sneaky fuck has reacted the way he always does when he can’t reach a target directly. He’s started talking.

Around four in the afternoon, my phone buzzes.

Yaroslav: Telegram.

I pull it up and go through the channels—there are a dozen semi-private groups where men like my father and his associates trade information they’d never put in writing elsewhere. I’m three lines in, and cannot believe my fucking eyes when the phone rings in my hand. Yaroslav.

“Seen it?” he says, before I’ve said a word.

“I’m reading it right now.” I keep scrolling. “He’s saying he sent you after me. Not after her.”

“He’s a good father,” Yaroslav says, and I can hear exactly how much he means those words, which is not at all. “You’re unhinged, Yakov. Obsessed. We were trying to stop you from doing something stupid. A small favor. Penance, even for Selene and the twins. It was proof he’d accepted the alliance after all. I simply didn’t get there in time.”

“And I took down her security myself.”

“Even he struggles to tell us apart. Who can confidently say it wasn’t you?”

I keep reading. “The marriage certificate.”

“You forced her to sign it at gunpoint. You’re out of your mind and holding her captive somewhere her own family can’t find her.”

“He’s a fucker.”

“And you’re a murderer, Yakov. A cold-blooded murderer. Father tracked you down and sent men to bring Raya home safely to her brothers, but you killed them both.”