Page 127 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

“Girls,” I repeat.

My hands are shaking. I don’t remember the last time my hands shook, but they’re shaking now as I look at those grainy images.

Two daughters. Two girls who’ll call me father.

I never thought I’d be a father, never thought I had the right. The men in my family aren’t exactly role models. My father’s hands were weapons, and I inherited that violence. I never imagined those hands could cradle something small and fragile without breaking it.

Vera laughs, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Roman, I told you about the morning sickness. I’ve been measuring large for weeks. You didn’t think it was strange that I was getting so big?”

“I thought you were just...” I trail off, because I don’t have words for what I thought. I thought she was perfect. The details didn’t really matter at the time.

Her hand settles over her belly. I place mine on top of hers, feeling the tight curve of her stomach beneath my palm.

I wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for—a kick, a flutter, some sign that they know I’m here—but I wait anyway.

Then I feel a tiny push beneath my palm.

“There’s the other one,” Vera whispers, moving my hand slightly to the left.

I feel another flutter.

Vera slips both arms around my waist and leans into my side, her belly nudging me.

Then I turn to her properly, and she’s looking up at me with those eyes that see straight through every wall I’ve ever built, and I can’t help myself. I frame her face in my hands, thumbs brushing the damp trails on her cheeks, and I lean down.

The kiss starts soft. She tastes like salt air. I take my time, drawing it out until she’s breathless.

When I finally pull back, she’s smiling that crinkled-nose smile that makes her look younger than she is, and I realize I’m smiling too.

“Twins,” she says again, like she’s testing the word.

“We’re going to have our hands full.”

She laughs, and the sound of it carries out over the ocean like birdsong. “We? Roman, I’ve seen you try to assemble a crib. You nearly put a screwdriver through the wall.”

“That crib was defective.”

“The crib was fine. You just refuse to read instructions.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she’s right and we both know it, so I just shake my head and draw her closer. “I’ll learn.”

Her expression softens. “You’ll be wonderful,” she says. “You already are.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just hold her. The wind picks up slightly, carrying the salt-smell of the ocean, and Vera shivers.

“Come on,” I say, guiding her toward the door with my hand at the small of her back. “You should get inside. It’s getting cold.”

She doesn’t argue, which tells me she’s more tired than she’s letting on. I stay close as we walk back toward the house.

The sliding glass door opens into the living room. It’s all weathered wood and soft throws and windows that overlook the ocean. It’s nothing like the places I’ve lived before. It’s just a house that feels like a home, warm and worn and safe.

Standing in the middle of it, putting away a portable ultrasound machine, is Yelena.

Of course.

I glance at Vera. “You could have mentioned she was still here.”

“You were a little distracted by the twins.”