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“I’m carrying my father’s heir.” She steps back, all the sexiness gone from her voice. “This baby is the future pakhan of Astoria. Your dead body is what my father and his bratoks will gladly climb over when Papa finds out you have us.”
Anastasia Koslov brushes past me, her scent disorienting me as she slams the door and leaves me here a fucking mess.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ana
The food cravings hit me out of nowhere.
For so many months, I barely had anything to eat. Maybe my brain didn’t let me crave what typically taunts pregnant women since I stood a one percent chance of getting it.
Sunday morning, I wake up salivating for pancakes. I saw batter mix down in the kitchen. I’m sure Sophie will love them.
God, how her father adores her.
It occurs to me that my father hasn’t even come close to finding me these past two and a half years. How hard has he been looking? Does he not have cyber capabilities?
Maybe he doesn’t care about me as much as I thought. I was just a pawn he could marry off to another pakhan.
When my brothers died, Papa shut down. Perhaps he wanted to get rid of all of us. First me, then…
My heart stops, worrying about Katya again. But my sister is smart. I managed to escape. If Papa tried to hurt her, she would, too.
Perhaps I should write her a letter about where I really am. Now that I’m in a safe space, if she needs to get away, she could come here.
My stomach growls as I dress in yet more of Darragh’s wife’s clothes. Sophie woke up late in the afternoon yesterday and just wanted some soup. I microwaved myself a bowl, too, and ate it in my room. I don’t know what Darragh did for dinner.
I hated how we ended last night. I feel so drawn to him, and that’s wrong. Or am I just seeing Cormac and how he used to be? It’s so confusing.
Pushing all that aside, I pad into the kitchen and look around, feeling such a sense of peace.
Papa’s house, our house, was bigger than this, but with all that harsh Russian spoken and guards with guns everywhere, it never felt like a home. I felt like I lived in a cold presidential palace.
In the cabinet below where I found the tea I made for me and Darragh, I find the pancake mix.
Opening the refrigerator, I grab milk, a few eggs, and, in another pantry, a large red ceramic bowl.
The stove is a six-burner monstrosity with a griddle in the center, which saves me time looking for a skillet. I fire up the griddle, grease it with a pat of butter, and then scoop out two ladles’ worth. They fluff up beautifully. One flip and they are golden. I’m ready to eat the raw batter, I’m so hungry.
I let the other side cook as I search for a plate. Opening cabinets and drawers, I realize everything is in short supply.
Spotting the dishwasher, I open it, and the telltale smell of detergent hits me. With everything inside sparkling, I know it’s all clean.
I plate the pancakes, and while they cool down, I start emptying the dishwasher, wanting to help out.
A throat clearing stills me as I turn around, holding a small cereal bowl.
Darragh stands there shirtless in black sweats that sit very low on his hips.
And he’s eating my pancakes.
He picks one up with his hands and takes a huge bite.
“Good?” I ask him, crossing my arms.
“Fucking incredible.”
“Glad you enjoy them.”
