Page 67 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

I let that settle in my chest. The rest of my life. No love. And sex just for procreation. I could refuse it all. Lourdes had said she and Ares could take me away from here.

But then I would be leaving my daughter. There is no way Kirill would give her up. And I doubt he’d agree to any shared custody.

I don’t want to know what that fight would look like. I don’t want to lose Violet before I even know her.

“And the daughter I did give you? My daughter that you kidnapped me for?” I ask, my voice steadier now. “When will I get to know her?”

“Let’s see what the doctors say tomorrow,” he replies, already moving toward the door. “And then we will take it slow for her sake.”

I watch him turn into another person. While the video played, I felt that same man was in the room with me. He’s gone now. The memory of our happy time gave way to an ugly outcome.

“I’ll send your dinner up here,” he continues, but emotion catches in his throat. “Please stay in this room. My daughter. I mean our daughter,” he corrects himself, “has free rein of this house.”

A small, unexpected smile forms on my lips at that. “You don’t restrict her?”

“No,” he says. “There are guards everywhere.”

“Will I have a guard?” I ask.

“Yes.” He leans against the doorframe again, arms crossed, ankles, too. “I was given my father’s authority to lead as Pakhan months ago, Sandrine. But I don’t just want Chicago. I’m broadening my reign from coast to coast. That means I’ll be traveling often. I need you here to be a mother to my daughter. I mean—” He catches himself again. “Our daughter.”

“If I’m to be a wife in name only, will you seek comfort elsewhere?”

He balls his hands into fists. He waited for one person. Me. “I don’t know.”

Head spinning, I only think to ask about one more thing. “I assume I’m allowed to have some kind of life other than child-rearing. Drawing and painting were part of my therapy. All my supplies are in Arizona.”

“I’ll get you new supplies.”

I do that jaw-tightening thing I’m learning from him.

“What?” he throws in my face.

“Nothing,” I respond, being a brat.

“Say it,” he mocks me, but there’s a hint of a smile.

“You can’t buy my acceptance of this situation.”

Nodding, he says, “So you want your things from Marlowe?”

“Yes. Please,” I say and drop my arms.

“Done.”

“And I can have a life?” I ask, pushing him. The pakhan. “Friends?”

“Yes,” he says. “So long as you don’t try to run away from me again, you’ll have no restrictions.”

“I didn’t run away,” I immediately counter, the words feeling like the truth.

He frowns. “I don’t know that. You don’t know that.”

I drop my gaze to my hands. He’s right. I don’t know for sure.

What’s in your heart is the truth.

Frustration and helplessness coil together inside me. “I don’t think I did,” I admit softly. “I just feel it.”