I close my eyes, and I can still see it. That tiny shape on the ultrasound screen. That flickering heartbeat. So small. So fragile. So undeniably real.
Alexei’s baby.
My brother’s child.
The last piece of him that exists in this world.
My hands curl into fists on the desk. The rage is still there, burning under my skin. The betrayal still cuts deep. But underneath all of that is something else. Something I don’t want to acknowledge but can’t ignore.
That baby has Volkov blood.
Half of its DNA came from my brother. Alexei’s eyes, maybe. His smile. His laugh. Parts of him that died in that warehouse could live again in this child.
It’s his legacy. His continuation. The one thing he left behind.
And it’s growing inside a woman I’ve spent two weeks making miserable. A woman I’ve deliberately hurt and isolated. A woman who’s been terrified of me finding out about this because she knew I could hurt her with it and destroy her and the baby both if I wanted to.
She had every reason not to tell me.
The admission tastes bitter. I’ve been a monster to her. I’ve made her life hell and called it justice, revenge, making the Ashfords pay, etc. But really? Really, I was just hurting a girl who’d done nothing wrong except fall in love with my brother.
A girl who’s now pregnant and alone and probably terrified I’m going to kill her.
Would I?CouldI?
I look at the whiskey glass in my hand and the devastation of my office—papers scattered, a lamp knocked over, the frame of Alexei’s photograph cracked where I threw it against the wall in rage.
No. I couldn’t kill her. I can’t even hurt her, not really. Not after yesterday, when I saw the genuine terror in her eyes, heard her sobbing through the door after I left, and knew I’d broken something in her that might never be fixed.
I’m a monster, but notthatkind of monster.
So what the fuck do I do with this information and this impossible mess?
There’s a knock on my office door.
“Go away,” I call out, my voice rough.
The door opens anyway and I growl in frustration. Only one other person would ignore that order, and the other is dead.
“You look like hell,” Konstantin observes, taking in the scene. The whiskey. The mess. Me, probably looking as destroyed as I feel.
“Feel like it too,” I mutter before squinting up at my uncle. “What do you want?”
“Mrs. Kozlov mentioned there was some... excitement yesterday. Dr. Petrov was called.” He settles into the chair across from my desk, looking at me with those assessing eyes that miss nothing. “What happened?”
Leave, I want to tell him,This is private, at least until I figure out what the fuck to do about it.But I’m too drunk and tired and too fucking destroyed to care anymore.
“She’s pregnant,” I say flatly.
Konstantin’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I see. That’s... unexpected and faster than I thought. Though I suppose it explains why she’s been unwell. How far along?”
“Eight weeks.”
He does the math quickly, his eyes narrowing. He’s always been fast with numbers. His expression shifts as understanding dawns. “Eight weeks. Which means…”
“Which means she was already pregnant when we got married.” I drain my glass and slam it down harder than necessary.
Konstantin sighs. “Well, that wasn’t expected. Who’s the father?”
