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He shakes his head. “The volume of breastmilk a lactating mother can produce has nothing to do with the size of your breasts.” He looks momentarily amused. “Though, I have to admit, yoursareperfect.”
I smile. “Why, thank you.”
“Oh, God, will you two get a room already?” Polina walks in the room carrying a tray with a large pitcher of water and a plate of something that looks delicious. She’s grinning, though. “And don’t worry about the baby gear. Auntie Polina’s on it.”
Mikhail scowls. “Run anything by me, first. Some of those things are marketing ploys with no actual focus on safety or endurance.”
Polina nestles the tray beside me andpats his head.“You’re socutewhen you get all baby growly,” she says. “It’s quite unlike you.”
His scowl deepens. “What did I say about calling me cute?”
She winks at me. “We don’t do baby showers here in Russia,” she explains. “I know they’re common in America, but we consider them to be bad luck.”
I nod. “Ah. Imagine. A Russian superstition!”
She snickers. “Not like Mikhail will let anyone else buy anything for the baby, anyway. But you can’t stop me from buying all the little outfits.” She points to the tray. “Try these. They’re Russian tea cookies and they aresogood with tea. I’ll make youpryanikiwhen you get close to labor. They’re spicy little cookies and supposedly help with the onset of labor.”
Mikhail, predictably, looks concerned. “We have a ways to go.”
“Oh, I know,” she says. “I love how liberally you men use plural pronouns to discuss pregnancy.We’repregnant.Wehave a ways to go. You, my friend, do not have any ways to go.”
He dismisses her with a grunt and reaches for my right foot. I lean back and take a cookie. It’s delicious – rich and buttery and a little crumbly. “Yummy,” I say around a mouthful of crumbs. “She’s gorgeous, brilliant,andbakes. You can’t ever marry her off, Mikhail.”
I’m joking, of course, but I don’t miss the look that flashes across Polina’s face.
She quickly recovers. “Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about that anytime soon. We do need to talk about going back to America, though.”
Mikhail nods. “We do.”
Now that things have settled back in America, Mikhail’s been itching to get back home. I love it here in Russia, though. After the controversy and struggles we faced in New York, the comfort and warmth of his family home set deep in the heart of Moscow, built like a fortress to withstand the bitter cold, feelsamazing.
It isn’t just the home, though, of course. Mikhail and I have our ownfloorhere. The rest insisted. I was amazed at the sheer size of this place and half expected that anyone who grew up in a home like this would be absolutely spoiled, but that’s not how they did things here with the Romanov family. I don’tcompletely understand why they ever left Russia to begin with, but know it has something to do with his father burning bridges.
We don’t have a commute while we’re here and thankfully my nausea’s a distant memory, so we get to spend more time with each other. We revel in each other. Mikhail’s also different here in Russia, in his homeland. Maybe it’s because the threat against us has been put to rest and he can finally breathe a little more freely. Or maybe it’s because we’re in his homeland and he finds a bit of himself here. But Mikhail seems to be easing into his position aspakhan,as leader of the family. It’s a role he was born to fill.
I’m not on the run anymore. Mikhail and his brothers put a decided end to that, and thanks to Aleks’s prowess, Volkov and everyone he was working with are either dead or in jail. Aleks orchestrated a high-profile exposé, outing the names and crimes committed that both he and I found.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I canbreathe.
Mikhail has promoted me and while he hasn’t demoted Aleks, he’s given him another job as well. So now I feel like I’m not Aria Cunningham, Professor by Day and Hacker by Night anymore.
No.
I’m Aria Romanov, head cybersecurity expert, a pivotal member of the Romanov family business. Aria Romanov, wife to Mikhail, mama to our unborn child, sister to Polina and the Romanov brothers.
“Mikhail? Polina? Aria?” Ekaterina’s voice rings out.
“In here!” Polina responds around a mouthful of cookie.
Mikhail gently lays my foot down and stands, stretching. Here in Russia he doesn’t often wear the formal clothes he does in America. While I love the look of him all dressed up, I could get used to the tees and jeans. There’s something so damn sexy-casual about it. Who am I kidding? I love Mikhail inanything.
Ekaterina opens the two large doors to the living room, an uncharacteristic look of concern on her face. “Where is everyone?”
Mikhail looks up. “The short answer is, everyone’s working except Viktor and Nikko, who were lifting last I heard.” He sobers at the look on her face. “Everything alright?”
Ekaterina nods, but she’s rarely fazed by anything, so this isn’t super reassuring. “Call them, please.”
Mikhail snaps to attention. I pull out my phone and tap the security feed at the same time Polina stands tall and squares her shoulders. “What is it?”
