Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
The nursery is almost done.
Behind me, Ruthie leans in the doorway with her arms folded across her belly. She’s barefoot, wearing one of my T-shirts knotted at her hip, her hair messy and eyes impossibly soft. She hasn’t said anything for the last few minutes—just watched. Quiet. Thoughtful.
“You’re really doing it,” she murmurs. “Bratva enforcer turned crib builder. We’re in uncharted territory here.”
I grunt but smile.
She steps forward, bare feet soundless on the rug. Her fingers trail along the top rail of the crib, then down to my shoulder.
“You know,” she says, low and teasing, “the baby’s not sleeping in here.”
I blink. “What?”
She smiles like it’s obvious. “We’re not doing separate rooms. I’m not trekking across the house at two a.m. with a screaming infant while you pretend not to hear.”
I raise a brow. “So we’re what… putting the crib in our room?” What the fuck? How are we supposed to have any privacy?
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
A beat. Then, gently, “Baby’s in the room with us. Bassinet.”
I stare at her for a second, then glance at the half-finished crib like it’s betrayed me.
She laughs, her hand covering her mouth.
I growl low in my throat and sit back on my heels. “All that work, and now it’s for show.”
“You’ll thank me later when you’re the one getting up for the three a.m. feeding,” she says sweetly.
I huff out a breath. “We’re taking turns.”
“Sure we are.”
She steps closer and kneels beside me. I just watch her. The way her hand flattens instinctively over the curve of her belly. The way her breathing shifts when I lean in, like she feels me before I touch her.
I lift one hand and curl it around the back of her neck.
Pull her in slow.
No fire this time. No bruising heat or need sharpened by grief.
Just quiet.
My mouth brushes hers with reverence. Like she’s something holy, and I’m unworthy.
Soft. Slow. Like the world can wait.
When I finally pull back, I press my forehead to hers, my voice little more than a rasp.
“Bassinet it is.”
“I love you,” she whispers.
I kiss her mouth, her neck, all the way down to her belly, then back up again. “And I love you.”
ZOYA
Mariah taught me how to slip past the trackers. No one was better at it than she was—precise, paranoid, and a little brilliant. She never showed off, never put herself at risk, just quietly made sure she could vanish if she needed to. She was the only one who really knew how. Ruthie knows a little now, but not everything. Not like I do.
I took my phone, stuffed it into the hollow back of a teddy bear—one I kept around just for this purpose—and tucked it under the blanket on my bed. Then I grabbed my burner phone, checked the biometric nodules wired into the bracelet around my wrist, and slid the decoy ball into place.
Weapons check: solid.
Rafail might’ve been overprotective and overbearing, but he made damn sure I knew how to wield a gun.
They’re coming.
And it’s going to be a fucking massacre.
The Irish will kill them. Every one of them. And Ruthie’s here. Luka’s here. And tonight—of all fucking nights—Ruthie asked me to pick up a pregnancy test.
We don’t have the firepower to hold them off. I don’t have time to convince my brothers. But if I can disperse the Irish…
So I make a decision and call Rafail.
I hate lying to him. God, I don’t think I’ve ever lied to him before.
But he’s the first I call.
“On my way,” he says, with no hesitation. “Heading to the warehouse. Lock the house down.”
I breathe. Just for a second. Then I call everyone else. Trick them into staying safe. Trick them into not playing the hero and endangering the innocents.
Every call is short. Every answer is instant. They trust me.
I cannot—will not—betray that.
I slide into the car and speed toward the bar. I know what I’m going to see. I already know. And I don’t want to.
But then—there they are. Every last bastard. When they see me, a big, bearded redhead grabs me and yanks me forward, his hand on my arm like a death grip. He’ll kill him for this. He’ll fucking kill him.
I can’t move and open my mouth to scream when a deep, commanding voice cuts through the mayhem.
“Get your fucking hands off her.”
The voice is low, deadly, a rasp of rage and fire.
It’s him.
My heart crashes into my ribs.
The weight of his boots thuds like anvils. He draws his weapon… and down they fall. I knew it was coming, and still, I’m unprepared for the way they scream and beg for their lives, but he pulls the trigger without hesitation.
My god.
One. By. One.
They try to run. They beg. They bleed.
They trusted him. But he executes them—cold, methodical.
“For betraying me.”
Bang.
“For your lies and theft.”
For the last one—he doesn’t rush it. He takes his time. Deliberate.