“They never used protection,” I spit. “Iosef, Grigory, Pyotr, Evan—they got whatever they wanted, and it definitely wasn’t fucking me with a latex barrier to reduce theirpleasure. They didn’t care if I got pregnant; they would have just had a doctor come and take care of it. They didn’t care aboutme. So this probably isn’t your baby, Kazimir, because you came in meonce. You know how many fucking times they did? Do you want me to try to guess?”
"Stop." He reaches for me, but I jerk back.
"Why? Does it bother you? Does it make you uncomfortable to hear what other men did to me? To know you’re not special just because you dumped your cum in me too?"
“You know that’s not what that was?—”
"It doesn't matter." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "The point is, the baby could be any one of theirs. So tell me, Kazimir. Would you still want it then? Would you still be so eager to play protector if it's not yours?"
The silence stretches between us. I watch his face, watch the way his jaw works, the way his hands clench and unclench. I'm waiting for him to do the math, to realize that the odds of the baby being his are low, then recoil, to tell me to get rid of it, to?—
"Yes."
His voice is low and quiet, but firm. For a moment, I don’t think I’ve heard him right. "What?"
He meets my eyes, and there's something fierce in his gaze. "I want it to be mine. But regardless of whose it is, I'm going to protect you. Both of you."
I stare at him. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You can't possibly?—"
"I can." He moves closer, and this time I don't back away. "You think I care whose DNA it has? You think that matters to me?"
I can’t take this. I can’t handle this kind of nobility from a man whom I feel so strongly that I should hate. I tip my chin up, glaring at him defiantly. "It should."
"Well, it doesn't." His voice is hard now, uncompromising. "What matters is that you're carrying a child, and you're in danger. There was a man following you, watching you, and you were too stubborn or too proud or too fucking scared to ask for help."
“I don’t need?—”
“You do. You’re living in a motel. Do you even have a plan for what you were going to do after the clinic?”
“I was going to figure it out?—”
"How?" He's close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. "How are you going to figure it out? You have no money, no job, no support system. You're alone in a city where people want to hurt you, and you're pregnant with a child that you can't afford to raise, that you feel your only option is to get rid of?—"
"That's not your problem."
"It is now." His hand comes up, and I flinch, but he just cups my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "I made it my problem when I pulled you out of that cell.”
"When you fucked me?" The words come out bitter. "Is that what this is about? You feel guilty because you couldn't keep your hands off me? Or because you let Ilya send me out of that warehouse alone, and you didn’t help me?"
His eyes darken. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out that this is your fault?" I'm pushing now, deliberately trying to be cruel. "If you hadn't let me leave that place alone—” My lips press together briefly. “And you took advantage of what you wanted in the safe house. You know you did.”
"You wanted it just as badly as I did." His voice is low, dangerous. "Don't pretend you didn't. Don't pretend you weren't begging for it. Taunting me.Temptingme."
Heat floods my face. "I was?—"
"You were what?”
“I faked it.” I glare at him. “So you’d think I liked it and wouldn’t get angry. You don’t think that’s what I was doing all that time in the compound? I know how to make men think I liked it?—”
He chuckles darkly, and his thumb moves to my lower lip, pressing down slightly. "Is that what you're going with? You’re sticking to that? You faked your orgasm?”
"Yes." I glare at him.
