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Isn’t he?
Frowning, I strip down and climb into the tub. The water is on the edge of scalding, but it’s exactly what I want. I welcome the heat, hoping that it offers the distraction I need. But no matter how deeply I sink into the water, no matter how deeply its heat penetrates me, my worries refuse to vanish.
The only way to know is to find out the truth about Pyotr.
I need to know if Arsen murdered a child.
You can always ask him … my own voice whispers. But I can’t. I won’t know that he’s not going to spin me another web of lies. Even though Arsen said he wouldn’t ever tell me lies, the fact that he kept Pyotr out of his story is enough to shake my belief in him.
I don’t want to be scared of asking, but this dread I’m feeling tells me that I am. But just what am I afraid of? Of finding out which monster is telling me the truth? Yevgeniy or Arsen?
Closing my eyes, I remember the amazement on his face when he heard our baby’s heartbeat. My brow furrows as another horrible thought bubbles up in the back of my mind.
What if he doesn’t care about me? What if it’s just the baby he wants? The baby will be Yevgeniy’s grandchild, with a strong claim to the Grachev Bratva.
And once the terrible idea has taken root, it winds its way around my heart, poisoning my thoughts.
Will he discard me after the child is born? He’ll have the heir he needs. He won’t need me anymore.
Maybe he has done to me what Yevgeniy did to Mom.
Panic sets in like cement in my blood. The water can’t soften it. I dunk my head, holding my breath, seeking some relief from my fear.
Am I destined to spend my life tiptoeing around Arsen, always unsure of what new secrets I’ll learn? Will he become a monster like Yevgeniy with age? Will he always resent me for denying him—driven by a need to possess me, to own me, to teach me that I can never run away from him?
The tub feels ice cold by the time I drag myself from it. Drying my body off, I pause to study myself in the mirror. My belly is starting to round out now—not much, but noticeable to me. I smile at the sight, turning from side to side to get the full picture. What a shame that this dream-like state is cloaked by the dreary reality that brought it to me.
I’m wrapped in a thick blue cotton robe, lying on my bed, when someone taps their knuckles on my door.
“Come in,” I answer.
Arsen leans inside. The moment he sees my bare legs, he freezes, heat swimming in his hungry stare. “Can we talk?”
Crossing my ankles, I try to bury my own rush of excitement. I’m all too familiar with the animalistic hunger in his expression. And if I’m being honest, I feel it as well, even though I try to deny myself from him.
It’s been weeks since we’ve been together, and my body is buzzing at the thought of being with him. Fighting back the urges inside me, I clear my throat.
“What’s up?”
He shuts the door—the click resonates from the air into my skin. He doesn’t come closer yet. Even at this distance, his presence affects me. “Dr. Helsan says that everything is fine with our baby.”
“Yes,” I agree, stroking my tummy. He watches me do it, like he’s fascinated. I can feel his eyes taking me in, and I’m filled with fresh waves of adoration and desire.
Arsen settles his weight against the door. “But there’s something he couldn’t tell me.”
“What’s that?”
“How you are doing.”
I straighten up in surprise. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?” Crossing the room, Arsen stands beside the bed, looming as he studies me intently. “We haven’t talked about what happened to you at the safe house or what Yevgeniy did when he took you with him. I know almost nothing about what you’ve endured. And you won’t tell me.”
He puts a hand on the headboard. The bandage wound around it draws my eye. “What about you? What have you been up to?”
Arsen frowns until there are grooves along his forehead. Flexing his fingers, he peels off the bandage to reveal bruises the same color as rotting grapes. They’re centered on his knuckles. “I punched someone.”
“Who?”
