Page 51 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

He cups the back of my head, forcing me to look directly into his eyes.

“The only touch I want you to remember from this day is mine,” his voice is a fierce, heavy command. “Only me, Raya. Do you understand?”

“Only you,” I sob against his lips. “Yakov, please.”

He pushes into me, a slow, deep, agonizingly perfect stretch that makes a broken gasp of pleasure escape my lips, my fingers clawing into the muscles of his shoulders as he fills me, reclaiming every inch of me as his own. He moves with a steady, relentless rhythm; in each heavy stroke I feel his promise of protection to me and our baby. He kisses the tears from my cheeks, his whispers a fiercely romantic litany of Russian endearments against my skin and mouth, moving down to my breast, which he takes in his mouth, sucking and pulling on my nipple. The sensation sends an electric jolt straight to my core.

Yakov senses it, lifts his head to meet my gaze, and growls, “Eyes on me when you come, malysh,” as he continues to hold me against the wall, his free hand continuing to tug at my nipple while he thrusts into me. When I come, I lock my eyes onto him, allowing him to see what he does to me. The sight must do something to him too, as a second later he falls over the edge with me, the feel of him spilling into me, the intensity of his gaze sending secondary ripples of pleasure through me as my walls continue to clamp down onto him, milking every last drop out of him.

“I love you, Yakov,” I say, breathless from his making love to me in the shower. “I’m yours, we’re yours. Forever.”

He looks into my eyes, his wet dark hair tumbled over his forehead, his chest heaving against mine. His hands slide down to cup my butt cheeks, keeping me pinned and spread against the wall with a raw, dominant strength that makes my whole body quiver, wanting more.

“Say it again,” he commands, his voice thick and rough. “Look at me and say it again, Raya.”

I lock my dark eyes onto his, my fingers curling into his hair to hold him still. “I love you,” I confess, the words a fierce, unwavering truth between us. “I love you, Yakov Mykros. I love our baby. Never let me go.”

A low, primal sound rips from the back of his throat—a mixture of pure adoration and unadulterated desire. His mouth crashes onto mine, stealing the remaining air from my lungs. His fingers grip into my ass as he steps us out of the shower, keeping himself firmly inside of me, carrying us out, soaking, to the bed. He lays me down gently, kissing me once before he says, “I need you to be comfortable for what I’m about to do to you, malysh.”

Epilogue - Yakov

Three months ago, we went through a shit storm of an afternoon where we found our men dead, Sofie kneeling on the clinic sidewalk in a pool of blood, and Raya missing. Three months ago, I heard the frantic, fractured words she’s pregnant, and felt the entire world both end and begin in the same second. I think about that moment a lot now. How the absolute worst moment of your life and the absolute best can arrive bundled together in the very same breath.

My mind drifts back to the armored car ride on the way to the hospital that afternoon. Raya’s hand had been locked in mine, her fingers holding on with a desperate, white-knuckled grip as the adrenaline finally bled out of her system. I had stared out the window into the gray city traffic, a statistical realization clicking into place inside my head.

I cleared my throat, not breaking my grip on her hand. “I’m a twin, you know.”

Raya shifted her head on the leather headrest, her dark eyes tracking my face. “And?”

“And Selene has twins,” I continued, my voice betrayed by the grin beginning to curl on my lip. “Statistically speaking—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, a faint, warning edge returning to her voice.

“I’m just saying, malysh. The math is—”

“Yakov, I swear to God, do not finish that sentence.”

I didn’t have to. Less than an hour later, the hospital sonographer glided the cold transducer across the gentle slope of Raya’s abdomen. The machine hummed, the static clearing until a rapid, rhythmic sound filled the sterile room. Thump-thump-thump.

“That’s a strong, healthy heartbeat, good,” the sonographer murmured, smiling down at the screen. She moved the wand an inch to the left, and then she went quiet, her brows furrowing for a split second. “Oh. Actually... look here.”

And there it was on the gray monitor. Two tiny, distinct flickering shadows.

Two.

I had looked at Raya. Raya had looked at me, her eyes wide with a mixture of profound shock and sudden, bubbling amusement. She started laughing first, a breathless, rich sound that echoed against the white walls. “Two for the price of one,” she whispered, her teary smile bright enough to blind me. “We really don’t do anything by halves, do we?”

I hadn’t been able to speak. For a full minute, my throat had been locked, a terrifying lump rising in my chest because I knew that if I opened my mouth to respond, I wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.

That was three months ago.

Tonight is family dinner night. Somehow, against every single shred of logic and personal history, this has become my favorite night of the week. It is a reality I could never have predicted for myself. I spent most of my life sitting at a long, silent mahogany table being barked at, interrogated, or systematically berated by a dictator. This table is the exact opposite. It is loud, chaotic, and full.

Down at the far end, someone has already spilled a glass of red wine, and the deep stain is blooming across the white tablecloth like a map. Two of the children are screaming with laughter, chasing each other in a frantic circle through the kitchen archway. Selene is throwing her head back, laughing loudly at something Matvei’s wife muttered into her ear, and across from them, the Volkov brothers are aggressively shouting over one another, arguing about a football match.

I sit right in the middle of the roaring madness, quietly watching the life hum around us. But beneath the warmth of it all, I can’t help my mind stepping backward into the dark. I think about Yaroslav and me, two little boys making up imaginary monsters in the shadows. I think about our very last conversation when we met at the dive bar, and the silent understanding that passed between us.

Right now, I have absolutely no idea where my twin brother is. It is the first time in my entire life that I cannot pinpoint his exact coordinates. It means Yaroslav does not want to be found. And because I know him, I am not digging. I am not sending out my shadow networks to hunt him. Yaroslav knows exactly where I am if he ever needs the monster he grew up with. And I know exactly where I wish he was—sitting right here at this loud, ridiculous table, out of the cold.