Chapter 153

Pregnant.

Again.

I slide down the bathroom wall until I hit the cold marble floor, test still clutched in my hand. Tears burn behind my eyes, but they’re not tears of joy.

Not this time.

The timing is fucked. We’re surrounded on all sides—Solovyov’s men attacking our shipments, Barkov lurking in the wings, Andrei still under house arrest but never truly contained, and Grigor Petrov lurking at the cemetery and his letters full of promises.

All I can think is that I’m an awful person no matter which way you slice it.

What kind of mother willingly brings another child into this?

What kind of mother even hesitates at the miracle growing inside her?

I’m as horrified as I am elated. Two conflicting emotions butting heads inside me. I press my palm against my still-flat stomach, trying to connect with the life that might be forming there.

A brother or sister for Sofiya.

Another human we’ll have to protect.

Another hostage for the world to snatch away.

The test slips from my numb fingers and clatters to the floor. I need to think, to process. But the walls are closing in, the reality of our life suddenly laid bare in all its ugliness.

My rose-colored glasses were shattered a long time ago. Since then, life has just stomped on the shards again and again.

This is our reality.

This is our child’s reality.

And now, potentially, another child’s.

The pregnancy test mocks me from where it’s fallen on the floor. Two pink lines that whisper, Here we go again, with all the subtle cruelty of a loaded gun pointed at my temple. A life sentence that I didn’t ask for, didn’t plan for, but somehow have been granted anyway. Again.

Life’s fucking hilarious that way.

I should be overjoyed, though, right? I mean, women spend fortunes trying to conceive. Somewhere out there, some desperate soul is ready to sacrifice absolutely everything she’s ever had for the chance to feel what I’m feeling right now.

But all I can think about is Sofiya’s tiny body burning with fever in that hospital bed. Or Vince’s face carved from granite as he stationed armed men at every entrance, convinced our enemies had poisoned our baby. Or the weight of his tracking necklace against my skin, a collar disguised as jewelry.

Another baby isn’t just another baby.

It’s another target.

But this could be wrong, couldn’t it? Maybe morning sickness is a liar. This isn’t morning, and what I’m feeling isn’t just sick. It’s terror so absolute it practically has its own heartbeat.

I flush the toilet and scrub my face. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like me anymore. She’s harder, sharper. Eyes that have seen too much. A mouth that’s spoken too many half-truths to ever be entirely honest again.

A knock on the door jolts me back to reality.

“Rowan?” Anastasia’s voice filters through. “Are you alright?”

I kick the pregnancy test under the vanity. “Fine,” I call back. “Just a minute.”

When I open the door, Anastasia stands there with Sofiya balanced on her hip. My daughter’s chubby cheeks are still flushed, but her eyes are clear, focused. She reaches for me with grabby hands.

“She was crying,” Anastasia explains, handing Sofiya over. “I thought you might want her.”

“Thanks.” I bury my face in Sofiya’s chubby neck and kiss her velvet skin. “She feels cooler.”

“The fever’s definitely gone.” Anastasia studies me, head tilted. “You, however, look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I force a laugh. “Just tired. It’s been a long few days.”

She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in the way her perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together. “Tea? I just made a pot.”

I should say no. Should retreat to my room with Sofiya and sit in my spiral of fear alone.

But suddenly, the thought of solitude feels suffocating.

“Sure. Tea sounds nice.” I follow her to the kitchen, Sofiya on my hip.

The tea is some fancy Russian blend that smells like citrus and cardamom. Anastasia pours it with an easy grace that makes me feel clumsy in comparison.

Even after weeks of hiding out in our compound, she still manages to look like she’s stepped off a runway—hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless, posture regal.

I, meanwhile, am in Vince’s old Harvard t-shirt and leggings, with unwashed hair and dark circles that makeup couldn’t begin to hide, even if I had bothered to apply any.

She sets a cup in front of me. “So are you going to tell me what’s really wrong, or should I pretend to believe you’re just tired?”

I set Sofiya on the floor for tummy time amongst some toys. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.” The elegant profanity sounds strange in her refined accent. “I know that look. I had the same one, not so long ago. Still do most days.”

I trace the rim of my teacup. “It’s complicated.”

“We’re hiding from our families in a fortress while our men try to prevent wars on multiple fronts.” Anastasia sips her tea daintily and laughs. “Everything is complicated.”

Something convinces me to unclench. Maybe it’s that she’s the only other woman who might understand this fucked-up life we’ve chosen. Or it’s just that I’m tired of carrying secrets that weigh more than I can bear.

“I think I’m pregnant,” I say finally.

Anastasia sets down her teacup with a delicate clink. “I see. Have you told Vincent?”

“He just left for Costa Rica.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I look away. “No. I haven’t told him.”

“Why not?” She tilts her head. “I would think he’d be thrilled.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “You saw what he was like when Sofiya had a fever. He turned that hospital into a goddamn war zone, convinced someone had poisoned her. And now—” I gesture helplessly. “Another thing to fuel all his worst instincts?”

“Another miracle,” Anastasia counters softly.

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one bringing children into this fuckedup world we’ve created.”

“No.” She glances down at her flat stomach. “Not yet, anyway.”

I gawk at her. “Are you —”

“No.” She shakes her head quickly. “But someday, yes. Dan and I want children. Even knowing what that means in our world.”

“How can you even consider it?” I whisper. “After everything you’ve seen? Everything you know about this life?”

Anastasia is quiet for a moment, watching Sofiya play with a rattle. “My grandmother lived through the siege of Leningrad,” she says finally. “Nearly two years of starvation, bombings, death everywhere. People ate wallpaper paste to survive.” Her eyes meet mine. “She told me once that, even during the darkest days, babies were born. Women fell in love. People found moments of joy between the horrors.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” She leans forward. “Our world has always been dangerous, Rowan. The threats just change shape. My family has been Bratva for generations. Yes, children have been targeted. Yes, some have died. But many more have lived, have thrived, have found happiness despite it all.”

“I can’t bear the thought of something happening to them.” I sniffle and rub at my eyes. “To either of them. I already feel like I can’t breathe sometimes, worrying about Sofiya. Another baby…”

“—is another reason to fight for a better world.” Anastasia reaches across the table and takes my hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Not a reason to despair that the world isn’t better yet.”