I try to play it cool—like I don’t feel the heat of Konstantin’s body right next to mine or the way his hand stays firmly at my back, guiding me like I’m not just hobbling but teetering on the edge of something else entirely.
Konstantin gently guides me toward the path, careful to avoid the roughest patches of stone. The garden lights glow soft amber, but my pulse is racing like we’re making a prison break.
I glance back over my shoulder.
And, of course—there she is.
Yelena. Perfectly still. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly terrifying.
“Leaving?” she asks, smooth as silk stretched over barbed wire.
“Yes,” Konstantin answers without pause, without looking at her.
Wow. That was awkward.
“Bella wants tacos!” Alya yells from her seat.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had one,” Lev says, wide-eyed.
“Me, too,” Alya chimes in, now clearly interested in starting a revolution.
“I…” My voice catches. I clear my throat. “I just want to get out. And I crave some tacos. That’s it.”
Yelena’s eyes flick to me.
My stomach. My face. Back to my stomach.
Like she’s mentally outlining blueprints for a threat she hasn’t confirmed yet.
I grip my crutch tighter and keep moving.
Because if I stand still too long, I might actually blurt it out.
That I’m pregnant.
That I overheard everything.
And that I’m scared out of my goddamn mind.
58
Konstantin
Ibuy everything the vendor has for the entire month.
Every tortilla, every slab of marinated pork, every ounce of salsa in the back fridge—all his stock gone in sixty seconds.
The vendor doesn’t ask questions. He sees the three SUVs idling across the street. The six bodyguards stationed at each corner like expensive shadows. He glances at the matte-black pistol visible under Anton’s jacket and hands over his keys like I’ve just bought his life.
No one lingers. Two teenagers try to film until one of my men raises an eyebrow. The phones vanish faster than the vendor’s dignity.
But Bella?
She’s unbothered.
Propped on her crutches in front of the grill like a queen with a limp, curls wild from the ocean wind, eyes glowing like the fire under the meat.
“Four tacos,” she says. “Carnitas. Extra lime. No onions. And one shrimp. Because I’m living dangerously.”
