Five months of quiet mornings, guarded conversations, bruised silences, and strange moments of tenderness I still don’t fully understand.
But things have gotten better. Not perfect, but better.
This morning, I sit across from him at the table. The food smells amazing—eggs, toast, something with cinnamon—and for once, I’m not just pushing it around on my plate. I’m actually eating.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I speak.
“The baby kicked yesterday,” I say casually, like I’m talking about the weather. “First time. I was in the shower.”
Lukin looks up, caught off guard. His coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth. “Really?” His voice is low, like he doesn’t want to break something fragile.
I nod, watching the way his eyes narrow slightly, processing the words.
“It was weird,” I add, suddenly unsure why I brought it up. “Kind of like a flutter at first… then just this little thump. I wasn’t even sure what it was until I stopped moving.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then—
“Next time it happens,” he says, “can I feel it?”
The way he says it—it’s not a demand. It’s not even a request. It’s something in between. Careful. Hesitant. Human.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.”
He nods, eyes still on me. “You make a beautiful pregnant woman, and I hope she looks like you.”
I blink. “She?”
He nods. “I’ve changed my mind. I want a girl.”
And something in my chest—something small and scared—softens. I laugh softly and for the first time in a long while, I let the silence stretch between us without running from it.
That afternoon, I’m sitting by the window in the bedroom, sketchpad in my lap, pencil smudged between my fingers. It’s one of the few things that calms me lately—drawing. I lose myself in it, in lines and shadows, in the soft curve of a new dress design. I can’t wait to go back to my fashion store after the baby.
The door swings open, sudden and fast.
Lukin strides in like a storm—sharp, direct, all business. I watch him cross the room, already pulling off his shirt, grabbing another from the closet. He’s getting ready for something—one of his Bratva meetings, I assume. I’ve learned not to ask questions. Not because I’m scared, but because this version of him doesn’t leave space for them.
Still, I watch. I always do.
It’s strange how he changes so quickly. One minute, the man who made me blush over breakfast. The next, the Pakhan—dead-eyed and ruthless. It’s in the way he buttons his cuff with precision, the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift in his posture. Like armor snapping into place.
When he finishes, there’s a quiet knock. Lukin says, “Come in.”
I sit up, because he never lets anyone into our bedroom. Ever.
A man enters—older, grizzled, solid. He nods once to Lukin and doesn’t spare me more than a passing glance. Hedoesn’t need to. I can tell who he is by how he stands, the way his hand rests near his sidearm, his silence. He’s a bodyguard.
“This is your new bodyguard,” Lukin says. “His name is Ronan. He’s your personal shadow. He goes everywhere you go. Watches you like a hawk.”
This man would die for Lukin or me, I can easily tell. I look between them. There’s a language they speak without words, a kind of loyalty that runs too deep for comfort.
Lukin turns to me as he slides his watch on.
“I won’t be long,” he says and walks out with Ronan. I take a deep breath, wondering what I’d gotten myself into.
Throughout the day, Ronan is a shadow.
I can’t take two steps without hearing the faint crunch of his boots behind me. Whether I’m going to the kitchen, the library, or just down the hall to get a glass of water, he’s there. Silent. Watchful. Unapologetically close.
