Page 52 of Bratva Baby

I hold his gaze a beat, then nod once. “Fine.”

He studies me as if agreement from me is more suspicious than defiance. “You’re going to make this difficult later, aren’t you?”

I arrange my lips into a sweet little smile. “Of course.”

His eyes drop over me, taking in my crossed arms, bare feet, and the expensive shirt of his I stole from the laundry because it was softer than anything in my room. “Good,” he answers. “I’d worry if you got easy.”

A flush climbs my throat, so I fold my arms tighter and lift my chin. “That sounded smug even for you.”

He leans down as if he’s about to say something cruel, then just brushes his thumb once over the inside of my forearm where I’ve folded my arms too tightly. “Try not to look so good while you’re threatening me,” he murmurs, and then he’s gone.

That afternoon, he brings the doctor again, and this time, I cooperate enough to keep the room from turning into another fight.

She’s in her forties, elegant without trying too hard, and completely unfazed by Anton, though I can’t say the same for myself. He’s off in the corner, six-foot-something of dark suit, broad shoulders, watchful eyes and that wicked mouth of his, and I’m irritated by how quickly my body notices before my brain can get there.

The doctor checks my blood pressure, asks about nausea, appetite, sleep, movement, and stress, and writes things down in neat, quick strokes. “How much activity?” she asks.

“Less than I’d like.”

Anton agrees, “Not enough.”

I look at him. “I was still speaking.”

The doctor doesn’t react. “You need regular food, hydration, controlled movement, and less strain. Seven weeks is early, but that doesn’t mean it’s irrelevant.”

I nod once.

Then she says, “Given the circumstances, consistency matters.”

That phrase stays with me after she leaves. Given the circumstances. Doctors say things like this when the situation needs more than medicine. Nothing about this is private now—not in Anton’s world. Timing, diet, stress, movement, risk all get folded into security and structure the second men like him hear the word blood.

The rest of the day goes per usual. Later on, Anton hands me a monitored phone when I’m reading in the library and gruffly says, “You can call someone, but one call, and short.”

I look at him over the edge of the desk. “Your hovering helps no one.”

“It helps me.”

He waves the thing exasperatedly at me and after a pause, I snatch it from him and dial Zhenya. She answers on the third ring. “Yes?”

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then, “You sound fed. That’s new.”

I almost laugh. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“I’d rather get useful. Talk.”

Anton is leaning against the bookshelf to my right with his arms crossed, watching my face instead of pretending not to listen. I angle away from him anyway.

“How’s the weather on the Baltic side?” I ask.

Zhenya answers immediately. “Bad enough that old boats are getting called back, and the ones still out are choosing their harbors carefully.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. “Maks?”

“Yes.”

I close my eyes for one second.