Page 85 of Bratva Brother’s Bride

He doesn’t respond.

I reach for his hand, but he pulls away before I can touch him. The rejection stings, but I understand it. He’s not pushing me away. He’s just trying to hold himself together.

He gets out without a word, and I follow.

We ride the elevator in silence. When we reach the penthouse, Roman goes straight to the bar and pours himself a glass of vodka. He downs it in one swallow, then pours another.

I stand in the living room, watching him. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make this better.

“I’m calling Lev,” he says finally. “We need more security.”

I nod, though he’s not looking at me. He pulls out his phone and dials, his voice low and clipped as he gives Lev instructions. I catch fragments of the conversation—double the detail, sweep the perimeter, no one gets close—and then he’s hanging up.

“It’s taken care of,” he says. “Lev’s handling it.”

“Okay.”

He turns to face me, and I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. “You should rest. Tonight was a lot.”

“I don’t want to rest.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I don’t want to think about tonight, or Konstantin, or any of it.”

Roman studies me for a long moment. Then he sets down his glass and crosses the room until he’s standing in front of me. His hand comes up to touch my chin, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone.

“Then we won’t,” he says. “We can relax for just one night.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe that we can pretend, even for a few hours, that our lives aren’t spiraling out of control.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He nods and steps back. “I’ll have Oksana make tea. Go change into something comfortable.”

I retreat to the bedroom without another word. The closet is full of clothes Oksana has procured for me, but none of them feel right. I end up in a pair of soft pants and one of Roman’s shirts, the fabric loose around my shoulders.

When I return to the living room, Roman has changed too. He’s traded his suit for jeans and a black t-shirt, and he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in days.

Oksana has laid out a spread on the coffee table—tea and sweet treats, as well as non-alcoholic wine. Roman hands me a glass and takes one for himself.

“No alcohol,” he says, settling onto the couch beside me. “But it tastes almost the same.”

I nod, though the gesture makes my chest tight. It’s such a small thing, but it reminds me that everything has changed.

We eat in silence for a while. The food is simple but good, and I find myself relaxing despite the circumstances. Roman’s presence is steadying.

“Can I ask you something?” I say eventually.

He looks up from his plate. “Of course.”

“When did you know?” I pick at a piece of bread, not meeting his eyes. “About the baby, I mean. When did you figure it out?”

Roman is quiet for a moment. “A few days ago. You were showing signs, though I didn’t know for sure until the doctor confirmed it.”

“What signs?”

“The nausea. The fatigue.” He shrugs. “You stopped drinking coffee; that was the giveaway.”

I look at him, surprised. “You noticed all of that?”

“I notice everything about you.”