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“Kira is pregnant,” Annie reminded Zoya.
“You think I do not know this?” Zoya asked, her accent thickening with annoyance. She set to work uncorking a merlot. “A little wine won’t hurt the baby. In Russia, women drink vodka. Babies are fine.”
Kira wasn’t so sure that was true anymore, but it seemed ill-advised to argue, so she let Zoya pour her a tiny amount of wine. The doctor had said it was okay in moderation, and Zoya was right: Kira was in need of something stronger than grapefruit seltzer.
She lifted her glass to Alek.
“Wait for me!” Annie said, rushing over to pour herself a glass. “I want in.”
They all raised their glasses, even Zoya, who had gifted herself with a very healthy pour.
“To the Lion, may he tear every man apart on his way out,” Kira said.
“Here, here,” Annie said.
The clinked glasses and Annie went back to work in the kitchen. A few minutes later, Rurik joined them, and they spent the next two hours talking over Annie’s delicious dinner.
Kira sipping her wine slowly, savoring every drop. She was relieved they didn’t talk about the timeline for rescuing Lyon. Kira could feel the pieces moving into place, knew they would have to formulate a plan.
But for now, it was nice to be at the dining table with the people who had come to be her friends, her family, in Lyon’s absence. It was a strange group to be sure, but they gave Kira something to look forward to at the end of the day, gave her a reason to keep getting up in the morning, to keep eating for the baby, to keep moving.
By the time Kira said goodnight to Alek at the elevator — another offer to stay in one of the spare rooms, another offer declined — her eyelids were heavy.
She said goodnight to Annie and Zoya, arguing over how best to clean the stove — again — and walked slowly up the suspended staircase leading to the second floor.
She turned into the first room rather than continuing to the end of the hall and the bedroom Lyon had given her when they’d first been married. She’d been sleeping in his room, the room she’d just begun to think of as theirs, since the day he was taken from her.
The sheets still smelled like him — she refused to wash them — and she chose a piece of his clothing from the walk-in closet to take to bed with her each night.
She got ready for bed, climbed between the sheets with one of the sweatshirts he wore on his morning runs, and turned off the lights with a sigh.
The baby was kicking and moving inside her, and she placed her hand on her stomach and stroked the little bumps and knocks, wishing Lyon could feel them too.
“You’re strong,” she murmured into the darkened room. “That’s because your father is a king. No one in the world is stronger, and no one in the world can keep him from us.”
It was her version of a bedtime story, and something she repeated every night in the dark. Sometimes she told their baby stories about when Lyon was a little boy, how he was angry and tough, how he never let anyone push him — or her — around. She laughed, recalling how she’d thought him a little bully, a young man with no refinement, something that would later turn out to be patently untrue.
Other times, she told the baby stories about the early days of their marriage, like the time Lyon had almost sputtered in indignation when he found out she’d orchestrated a brunch with some of the women, or the time she’d arranged for him to meet with the leaders of the Syndicate, a rival criminal organization.
When she was feeling really brave, she spoke of how she fell in love with him, recounting all the times she’d caught him smiling when he wasn’t aware she was watching, all the times she caught him looking at her. She told the baby about the book he’d gifted her in Lake George the night after they’d slept together for the first time, the way his gaze had felt soft on her face.
By the time she started drifting off to sleep, the baby had calmed its movements.
Kira lay in the dark, thinking of Lyon, wondering where he was, if he was okay, if he was thinking of her at that very moment.
Then she thought about the fact that they’d narrowed the possible locations to two (she wouldn’t allow herself to consider the possibility that they were wrong about both).
What would her husband do in this situation?
“Talk to me, Lyon,” she murmured as she fell into sleep. “Tell me what to do.”
4
She woke with a start, her heart pounding, words blowing though her mind like a strong wind.
Come now, malen'kiy sokol. I am ready.
It was Lyon’s voice, his nickname for her.
