Warmth fills my chest as I realize what I just said. More heat hits when I realize it's true. If anyone's having babies with Valentina, it's going to be me. And no one's taking our kids. Not now, or ever.
I turn back to Willow and grin, teasing, "What? You want a cousin? Should we go get busy now?"
Valentina laughs, playfully slapping the back of my arm. "Brax! Don't talk to Willow like that."
"Why?"
"She's a baby."
"So?" I shrug, then lift Willow up and down in the air, asking her, "Girl or boy?"
She giggles, and I avoid looking at Valentina, wondering how long she needs to be off her birth control before I can put my baby in her belly.
29
Valentina
Two Weeks Later
Two weeks pass inside Kirill's penthouse like we've been swallowed whole by the walls. I used to joke about how massive this place was, how it stretched across two floors with enough space to fit every secret Kirill has ever hidden. Now it's a luxurious prison wrapped in anxiety and forced patience.
No one leaves for anything. The only fresh air we get is on his rooftop, but even that is in small increments. Whenever I look down at the city, it's the slightest reminder that the world outside still lives on.
The only visitor is Liam. He delivers us groceries, still pissed no one is telling him anything. But Kirill said it was better if he didn't know the details. Not until everything is burned to the ground.
Each day, the walls press further inward. The morning starts the same. The six of us wake in different patterns of exhaustion, then find new ways to share space without imploding. The babies coo or cry, depending on which one needs what. Someone brews coffee that tastes progressively more desperate. Someone else scrolls through channels with the same energy as a hostage mapping escape routes with their eyes.
The men spend hours in Kirill's private gym. The sounds drift into the hallway of fists hitting heavy bags, the sharp breaths of sparring, and the occasional curse when someone gets clipped harder than they expected. Two days ago, all three of them came out of the gym soaked in blood. Sean had a fat, bloody lip. Brax had a swollen, bruised eye. And Kirill's scar swelled across his face.
All of them were grinning, the happiest we'd seen any of them in months.
When they aren't beating each other's bodies, they're crawling on the floor with the twins. Sometimes they argue over how to handle the strategy with the membership, whiteboarding their contingencies like they're planning for Armageddon.
Despite all the suffocating tension, we're holding it together. It's not easy with six adults, two babies, and zero certainty about whether we'll all be alive in a week.
And yet I haven't once woken up dreading being trapped with them.
Even the arguments burn out fast, soothed by exhaustion or the weight of the bigger threat pressing down on all of us.
The best part is that Brax can't keep his hands off me. Being trapped like this has lit something under both of us, turning every inch of space we share into something charged. He touches my back when he walks past. His arms wrap around me during conversations that have nothing to do with danger. He'll pull me into shadowed corners like the desire might suffocate him if he waits another second.
Some days, we barely make it through breakfast before he drags me to a guest room, locks the door, and reminds me how fast his blood runs when he's near me. Other days, it's late at night, whispers against my throat, his mouth staking territory across my skin as if the danger outside has carved out a new, hungrier version of him.
I'm not complaining, but the obsession threads with something darker. It's a residue of fear neither of us addresses out loud. It's as ifour world is about to collapse, so he wants to claim every part of me before he no longer can.
Today, the babies finally nap at the same time, which is a rare miracle. So Zara, Fiona, and I sit at the table in the family room with a Scrabble board between us. We all try to forget that we're waiting to see if the men who promised to destroy half the world's criminal infrastructure can pull it off without dying, thus saving us from our own fate.
Zara lays down five tiles and grins. "Siphon. Triple word score."
Fiona drops her head back with a groan. "I swear you're cheating."
"I swear I'm just smarter," Zara fires back.
I look at my tiles and try not to laugh. "Smarts and cheating aren't mutually exclusive, you know."
Zara flips her hair like she's accepting an award. "Bless you, Valentina, for acknowledging my gifts."
Fiona snorts. "Gift is a strong word."
