Page 42 of A Surprise Baby for the Russian

“Aunt Raya!” Solenne screams, launching herself straight at my waist. I drop to my knees, catching her small body in my arms, inhaling the sweet scent of cold air and vanilla. Arron hits my other side a second later, tackling me into the floorboards.

“Easy, you two ozornyaki,” Yakov’s deep, gravelly voice rumbles from the archway.

The twins instantly freeze, their little heads snapping toward him. Arron’s face lights up with absolute unadulterated joy. “Uncle Yakov! You’re here! Are you gonna do the monster voices this time? Mom said yours is brilliant and Aunt Sofie’s is boring.”

“Shh! Arron.” Selene hisses, but it’s too late.

“Hey!” Sofie shouts, marching out of the living room with a stolen piece of celery in her hand. “My monster voice is theatrical and brilliant, you little traitor.” She bypasses the kids, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing me until my ribs crack, before she immediately cuts her wide eyes over my shoulder to Yakov. “You look less grumpy, Mykros.”

“Sofie, please don’t start,” I warn, my face burning as I smooth down my sweater.

“What? Can’t a girl make an observation?” Sofie smirks, winking at Yakov.

The dinner itself is pure, beautiful chaos. We jam ourselves around the long mahogany dining table, and within five minutes, several conversations are happening at a deafening volume. Nobody waits for anyone to finish a sentence. Adrian and Egor are arguing aggressively over the correct way to marinate steak, using their steak knives to gesture wildly in the air.

Sofie is actively reaching across the table, shamelessly stealing roasted potatoes off Matvei’s plate while our oldest brother rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you eat like a gannet?” he teases her. “Where the fuck do you put it all?” Irina elbows him and tells him to mind his language in front of the kids. Simon is leaning over to cut up Arron’s meat, while Selene laughs so hard at something he says that tears are rolling down her face.

I steal a glance at Yakov, who is sitting right next to me. He isn’t talking much, but he isn’t hiding behind his icy mask either. He’s... absorbing it, watching Adrian laughing at Matvei as he passes the bread, tracking the effortless, safe warmth of the room. These are some of the most dangerous men in the city, but right here, in their own home, surrounded by their wives and children, they are just brothers, and we are family. I can see the reality of it melting away the last of Yakov’s rigid defenses, and the sight of his broad shoulders finally relaxing makes me so happy. I can’t help but give his thigh a squeeze under the table.

After dinner, the chaos moves into the sprawling living room. The adults are scattered across the leather couches, drinking whiskey and wine, talking in low, comfortable murmurs. At some point, the ambient noise shifts, and I look across the room toward the large bay window.

My breath catches in my throat.

Yakov is sitting flat on the carpet, his shirt sleeves rolled up, surrounded by the kids. They have systematically stripped the large velvet cushions off the sofas, and Yakov is currently helping them construct a massive fort in the corner of the room.

“No, Uncle Yakov,” Solenne dictates, bossing him around. “The big cushion has to go on top for the roof, so the monsters can’t get in!”

“If the big cushion goes on top without a central pillar, the roof will collapse, Solenne,” Yakov explains to her, his voice patient as he treats her five-year-old logic like a high-level tactical briefing. “We need to brace the perimeter first. Watch.”

He slides a thick bolster into place, anchoring the structure. Arron lets out a high-pitched cheer, clapping his hands. “It works! Uncle Yakov is smarter than Aunt Sofie!”

“That’s not hard,” Egor shouts across the room.

Sofie yells back from the kitchen without missing a beat, “I heard that, Egor! Don’t think I don’t know it was you!”

Yakov lets out a low, rough chuckle. He looks up as the sound escapes him, his eyes sweeping across the room until they land directly on mine.

I go to look away, my pulse racing, but I stop myself. I have been looking away from my feelings for weeks, and I am tired of running. I hold his gaze. I let him see the heat and desire in my face. Yakov stares back at me over the tops of the children’s heads, his eyes darkening in a way that tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

As the evening winds down, we help herd the sleepy kids toward the door, exchanging quiet hugs and hushed goodbyes with the rest of the family. By the time Yakov and I finally walk up the stairs, the main house has settled into that deep, peaceful quiet that only happens after a long night of laughter.

We lay facing each other on the bed, the only light coming from the moonlight through the curtains. Neither of us is ready to close our eyes yet. We’re just existing in the heavy, simmering silence between us. His hand moves across the sheets, his fingers finding the ends of my hair as he begins to turn a strand of it between his fingertips, a soft, unconscious habit he does whenever we are alone in the dark.

I look into his eyes, feeling the smooth, unhurried movement of his hand. I think about his quiet thank-you to Matvei this morning, and the sound of his laughter on the living room floor with the kids. I think about every single protective, obsessive thing he has done since the day he violently pulled me into his world outside that bookstore.

A feeling of profound certainty settles deep in my chest. I know what I feel. I have known for a while now, hiding the truth behind defenses that have slowly crumbled. I have taken my time to admit it to myself, because that was my right, but I am done pretending. I love him. He is my husband—technically, legally, and in every single visceral way that matters to my soul.

I lean forward across the space between our pillows and kiss him.

Yakov goes totally still against my lips. His fingers freeze in my hair, his entire massive frame locking down as his breath catches in his throat.

He pulls back, his gray eyes wide in the dark as his hand moves to cup my chin. “My wife.” He says.

“Your wife,” I whisper back, “my husband.”

Whatever he sees in my eyes must satisfy the dark, possessive hunger inside him, because Yakov lets out a low, ragged growl and closes the distance. He pulls my body flush against the solid heat of his chest, devouring my mouth.

This is no adrenaline-fueled exorcism of need. There is no ticking clock hanging over our heads. This is a clean, unyielding choice. I am giving myself to my husband because I want him more than I want my next breath. I am done hiding from the reality of who we are to each other.