Page 10 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

“Finally.” Sofie doesn’t bother with hello. “Two days, Raya. Two days of Selene telling me ‘she’s fine, give her space’ while you’re holed up somewhere with Yakov Mykros, and I haven’t badgered Matvei once, so you’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I should have called sooner.”

“You should have.” When she speaks again, the manic edge has dropped out of her voice. “Are you actually okay?”

“I’m okay,” I admit. “Ask me again in a week.”

“You think you’ll be gone that long? What actually happened? I can’t get much out of Selene, which is unsurprising, as Yakov’s her brother, and I daren’t ask Simon; he’s pretty busy trying to stop Matvei from tearing the city apart.”

“Yakov’s twin Yaroslav tried to kidnap me outside the bookstore.”

“That motherf—”

“But,” I interrupt before she can go off on a rant, “Yakov stopped it. I’m with him. I’m at—I don’t actually know where I am, but it’s a house, and it’s fine, and yes, he’s a lot. But he’s not that.”

“Good, Selene keeps telling anyone that’ll listen that he’s the best of the family. But there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? I can hear it.”

The only way to do this is like ripping off a band-aid, so I spit it out. “He also made me sign a marriage certificate.”

The silence that follows is somehow worse than the scream I was braced for.

“Sofie?”

“He forced you to marry him? I don’t care what Selene says about him. We will—”

“No. God, no. Nothing physical or threatening.” I search for the right words. “It was the least worst option. He explained why, and it actually made sense, so I signed it because the alternative, well, it’s pretty horrific. He didn’t hurt me, Sofie. I promise.”

She exhales, long and shaky. “Okay. Good.”

“Sofie. I need you to really listen to this part.” I wait until I have her full attention, no jokes, nothing. “Nobody knows about the marriage. Not Matvei, not the others, not even Selene yet, though I’m going to call her after you. This needs to stay between us until I say otherwise.”

“Obviously,” she says, sounding offended I’d need to ask.

“I mean it, Sofe. Tell anyone, and I will personally inform Matvei, whose idea it was to ‘borrow’ his Patek Philippe for that boat party in Cyprus. The one that’s now floating at the bottom of the sea.”

She gasps. “That’s low.”

“I can go lower.”

“Fine. My lips are sealed.” Then, because she can’t sit in anything heavy for more than about ninety seconds without trying to lighten the mood: “So. You’re married to a Mykros.”

“To the nicest one, apparently, yes.”

She whines into the phone, “But I never got to be the sexy bridesmaid!” Then, a second later. “Is he hot?”

“Sofie!”

“What? It’s a valid question! You’re married to him. I’m allowed to ask!”

“We are not—that is not the—” I press my fingers to my forehead. “This is not the relevant part of the situation.”

“So that’s a yes,” Sofie says, with enormous satisfaction. I hang up and call Selene.

“Holy crap,” Selene groans. “I’ve been going out of my mind with worry. Are you okay? How are you doing?”

“Do you mean, ‘How’s the honeymoon?’ given that he made me sign a marriage certificate? I’m married, Selene. We’re married. Has he told you that?”

The silence tells me he didn’t.