Page 18 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

“Selene’s brother, Selene’s father, Selene’s blood. You hear the hypocrisy, right? This is a shit situation, Matvei; it’s not what I’d choose for myself, but no, I’m not coming home just yet.”

The silence on the other end is enough to make me sweat. “No is the wrong answer, Raya. I’m in charge of this family, and I know what’s best for you. Tell me where you are, now, and I will personally come and get you.”

“The answer is still no.” My hand is shaking; I press it flat against my thigh to stop it. “We had to move. His father found the last house. He sent some men. Yakov’s been shot.”

From the level of noise that comes through the earpiece, it sounds like he just flipped his desk or something crazy. He’s definitely not happy.

“You were shot at. And you’re telling me this now? On a phone call, like you’re telling me about a shopping trip?”

“I’m telling you because I don’t want you finding out secondhand and doing something stupid.”

“Too fucking late. I’m already going to do something, but stupid it’s not. I’m getting in a car, and I am going to go fuck some Mykros shit up. Don’t think I’ll be missing out on the son currently keeping my sister as collateral damage—”

“He killed both of them, Matvei. The men who came for me. He didn’t hesitate to protect me, and he took a bullet doing it. That’s not collateral damage. That’s the only reason I’m alive to have this conversation with you.”

“I’ll send a fruit basket, shall I?” His laugh has no humor in it at all.

“Your security failed once already. They got to me in broad daylight on a public street, taking out all four guards. I won’t feel safer with more of it. I feel safer here.”

“You don’t get to make that call. Not about this.”

“It’s my life.”

“And it’s my job to keep you in it.” He roars. “You know what? If you don’t give me a location, I’ll find you myself, and I promise you I will not be gentle about how I get you out.”

“Do you not think that’s exactly what his father is banking on? This time it’ll be you who leads him straight to us. You may get us killed!”

“I’m going to speak to your other brothers, and we will decide what to do next. When I ring, answer your phone. Understand?” The line goes dead before I can answer.

Yakov stays quiet for a moment, then he says, “That went about as well as I expected.”

“He’s going to come anyway, isn’t he?”

“Maybe. Probably not tonight. For what it’s worth, you handled that better than I would have. I’d have told him to fuck off after ‘where are you.’”

A short, surprised laugh escapes me. “He really would have burst a blood vessel then.”

The jacket situation happens a few days later when he’s trying to get it on to go and check the car, an idea I have already told him is terrible with one working arm. He ignored me, naturally. I watch him attempt the one-armed shuffle for about thirty seconds before I cross the room and hold the jacket open for him. I reach around to sort the other side over the sling, and suddenly I am standing much closer than strictly necessary. There is a brief still moment where neither of us moves. I can smell him, the leather of his jacket, and the sharp, clean scent of the saline I used on his shoulder. His breath catches, a tiny hitch in his chest that brushes against my collarbone. For a second, I forget to breathe. I think I’m losing my goddamn mind.

He doesn’t step back. His massive frame blocks out the light from the living room window, trapping me in the narrow space between his chest and the front door. I can feel the heat of his body cutting through the fabric of my sweater. My hands are still resting against the heavy leather of his shoulders, my fingers frozen against the seams. I want to pull away. Every logical piece of my mind is screaming at me to create distance, to remember who he is and what his family did to mine. But my boots feel glued to the floorboards.

Yakov lowers his head an inch, his gray eyes darkening into a stormy, intense shade as he looks down at me. The cocky, teasing facade he usually wears at the kitchen table is gone, replaced by a raw, heavy gravity that makes my knees feel weak.

“You’re shaking, Raya,” he whispers, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of my temple.

“It’s cold in this hallway,” I lie, my voice a thin, shaky splinter.

“It isn’t the cold,” he says, his good left hand slowly rising from his side. He doesn’t grab me. He doesn’t force me against the door. Instead, his long fingers gently brush against my jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheekbone with an exquisite, terrifying tenderness. The contrast of his rough, scarred palm against my skin is an electric shock. “Do you need me to warm you up, malysh?”

“I’m helping you with your jacket, moron,” I whisper, my eyes tracking the slight movement of his throat as he swallows. “Because you’re incompetent with one arm.”

“Mm.” A low, rough chuckle rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating directly against my collarbone where our bodies are almost touching. “A tactical vulnerability. I’ll allow it. But don’t pretend you don’t feel the air changing in this room. It’s insulting to both of our intelligences.”

I step back, clearing my throat, tearing myself away from his hand before the heat in my face betrays me. “There.” And brush some imaginary fluff off the front of it.

He looks at the jacket, then at me. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” I smile; I mean that literally: don’t mention it, let’s pretend I didn’t try and sniff you. Fuck. It’s clearly being stuck in such proximity. This wouldn’t be happening if we were normal people in the real world. Would it? I go back to the two-year-old local newspaper and read the same page three times.