Page 38 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

Matvei stays quiet for a minute. Then he gives a single, sharp nod and moves away. That is the entire conversation, which is how I know he’s satisfied. Matvei never wastes words on things he’s already decided.

I cross the floor back to the armchair. Solenne looks up at me immediately, her dark eyes wide. “Story now, Aunt Raya? Uncle Yakov said he knows a monster voice!”

Yakov’s gray eyes snap up to mine. There is a raw vulnerability flashing across his features that I am emphatically choosing not to examine in front of my family.

“Not tonight, sweetie,” I tell her, gently patting her shoulder. “We’ve had a long day traveling today, so we need a little rest. Tomorrow, I promise.”

She lets out a dramatic sigh but accepts the terms. I look down at Yakov, my heart doing a familiar flutter against my ribs. “Do you mind if we head up? It’s been a long day.”

He is on his feet before I even finish the sentence, his large frame instantly shielding me from the rest of the room. “What do you need? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, honestly. Maybe a bit tired. Today’s catching up with me.”

I turn and lead the way out of the living room, heading toward the grand staircase, our boots clicking softly against the hardwood as we move down the long, arched corridor of the residential wing. I can feel him right behind me, his heavy, protective presence a comfort at my back. I am fully aware of the guards watching us from the corners, and that my brothers are tracking our path. I don’t care.

I stop outside my bedroom door at the very end of the hall, and turn around to face him. Yakov halts a step back, keeping his hands loose at his sides. He doesn’t reach for the brass handle to usher us inside. He doesn’t assume anything. He stands there in the dim hallway, giving me the ultimate choice under my own roof, and the sheer gravity of everything that’s happened fills the space between us.

“I want you in here,” I say, my voice steady, refusing to back down. “With me.”

He looks down at me, the dim shadows of the hallway cutting across the sharp planes of his face. His eyes darken, a sudden wave of possessive heat crashing into his gaze that makes my breath catch in my throat. He steps closer, closing the distance until I can feel the radiating warmth of his chest pressing against my space.

“Be very careful what you’re asking for, malysh,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight down my spine. “If I walk through that door tonight, I’m not sleeping on a couch. Inside this room, you are with your husband.”

I look up at him, my heart pounds in my tightening chest, but I don’t back away.

“I know,” I whisper, my fingers reaching up to twist into the fabric of his shirt. “Lock the door.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He twists the brass handle, steers me inside my room, and shuts the heavy wood behind us, throwing the deadbolt with a loud, definitive click. The moment the lock snaps into place, the overwhelming anxiety I’ve been carrying all evening—the suffocating awareness of being watched, of us being judged—quietly stops.

The security of my room envelops us. I slide beneath the comforter, my heart still racing as I watch him strip off his heavy jacket and unbuckle his holster, setting them on the chair. He kicks off his boots and slides onto the mattress beside me, wearing nothing but his t-shirt and sweatpants.

True to his word, his large left arm immediately snakes around my waist, his palm curls around my hip as he pulls my back flush against his solid chest. He tucks me securely into his frame, trapping me against him until my breathing finally slows. The dark settles over us, thick and safe, and with him holding me tight against the world, I fall asleep almost immediately.

The morning after is almost normal, which is its own kind of strange. Selene arrives mid-morning with the twins, who immediately locate every toy in the vicinity and set to covering every inch of space with them. Sofie is buried at the opposite end of the couch, wearing the same interrogation expression she had plastered on her face yesterday. But she waits until after Selene takes the kids into the garden before she strikes.

“So,” Sofie says, leaning in. “Yakov.”

“Don’t start, Sofie.”

“I see the way he looks at you, Raya. Like he’d burn the world to ashes if you asked him to.” She lets out a sigh. “It’s so frigging romantic.”

I wrap both of my hands around my heavy ceramic mug, staring down at the liquid and saying nothing. There is a thin, silvery mark on my index finger from where the kitchen knife caught me in the safe house. It’s barely visible now, but I run my thumb across the smooth skin without meaning to, my mind flashing back to the heat of his mouth against my skin.

“Sofie, please.”

“And I see the way you try not to look at him,” she counters, a knowing smile cutting across her face. “Which in our family is basically the same thing. You’re losing your mind over him.”

I stare into my tea, my throat tight.

“And?” she pushes.

“And it’s complicated,” I whisper.

Sofie tilts her head. “What’s complicated? You mean the ‘I got kidnapped and married to the same man in one day’ kind of complicated? Or the ‘I’ve got feelings, and it’s weird because of how we started’ complicated? And let’s not forget the ‘what do I tell grandkids?’ complicated. Which one are we going with?”

I look up, meeting her eyes. “All of it at the same time?”

Sofie reaches over, squeezing my hand tightly. “Raya, which part of the way the Volkov family operates isn’t weird or complicated? Look at Selene and Simon. You don’t need anyone’s permission to have feelings. If anyone tries to tell you how to feel, tell them to fuck right off, or better still, send them my way, okay? You’re doing fine. Just breathe.”