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“Have you chosen a name?” Sorokin asks.
I smile. “Veronika would be the perfect name.”
“And a boy?” he asks.
“Andrei, of course,” I answer without hesitation.
Sorokin slants an eyebrow mischievously. “Have you spoken to your husband recently?”
“No,” I answer politely.
His snaky smile deepens. “So, you probably haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?” I ask, standing by the open door.
“Talia Nikitin is pregnant.”
Before the door shuts behind me, Sorokin’s laughter echoes down the hallway. He puts me back in my place with a single remark that cuts deep. Slava tightens his grip on my arm as the world whirls around me, and I stumble down the stone pathway to my car.
I’m ushered along in a daze, and as I’m put in the passenger seat, I wonder why Andrei didn’t tell me.You aren’t exactly on speaking terms, Paige.My chest tightens as I try to catch my breath. It’s not like I have any right to be upset, but still …
We speed off toward home. I try to conceal my sobs, but I can’t.
It’s not his fault he doesn’t want me anymore.
Slava glances over before he pulls out onto the road. “It’s not his; you know that. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know anymore.” I nod, wiping my nose on my hand as the façade of strength crumbles away at the terrible thought. “I don’t think I ever knew who Andrei Barinov really was.”
Chapter 48
Andrei
My enemies are underfoot, and they’re not getting up again. I grit my teeth hard as I stare out the window at the terrace. Nothing obstructs my view of the trees. In my mind, I see Paige looking beautiful as she dances close in my arms and lifts her cheeks for my kisses. It’s been days since Gleb’s death, and it’s obvious that Paige is making no plans to return.
I want to shout and hit, but at whom? I want to pull my gun out of the holster and unleash my anger, but at what enemy? All my enemies are gone. I’m the last one left.
Natasha quickly looks away when our eyes meet and stares at the laptop resting on her lap while she sits on the couch. She watches me intently when I look away.
I grab my suit jacket off the back of the chair and head for the door.
“Are you going somewhere?” she asks as if she is my keeper.
I pause and listen to my breath coming out in ragged breaths. “Does it bother you that I took the kill?”
Her eyebrows lift as she shrugs her slender shoulders. “I don’t dig the blade of my knife into a tree, leaving a mark to keep my score. I only count my losses.”
“Should I count my losses, Natasha?” I ask, narrowing my gaze in a challenge. Does she dare tell me how badly I’ve fucked up?
“My grandmother was from the old country.” Natasha places her laptop beside her. “She told me many stories, and my favorite was about a wolf.” Natasha clears her throat and recites Aesop from memory. “A wolf spots a baby lamb that strayed from its herd and declares it had insulted him the year before. The lamb cries ‘impossible’ for it was born that spring. The wolf growls that the lamb grazed in his pastures and drank from its spring, but the meek lamb denies it. It’s never eaten grass or tasted water from the wolf’s spring. Tears well up in the lamb’s eyes, and it wishes for its mama. But there’s no mercy or logic when the wolf wants its dinner.”
“And am I the wolf?” I ask menacingly.
She stands up abruptly, smoothing down her cashmere sweater dress. “I’m no lamb, Andrei Vasilyevich. And neither is your wife. There are several morals to the story. I only suggest you don’t follow the wolf’s example.”
Natasha leaves the office without another word. And I’m left standing there, glaring at the back of the closed door.
Fuck her insolence.
