“Aleksandr, wait.”
He’s not waiting. Not slowing down. Not giving me time to panic or overthink or change my mind.
Chapter Twenty-Four - Aleksandr
I’m pregnant.
The words loop in my head during the entire drive to the clinic. Elena sits rigid beside me in the car, staring out the window, hands clasped so tight in her lap her knuckles are white.
I want to say something. Should say something. But every word that forms feels inadequate or wrong.
My child. Possibly. Her body carrying something that’s mine, that we created in my office that night when control shattered completely.
The thought fills me with something fierce and possessive. Not anger—never anger. Something else entirely. Something that feels like claim and terror and desperate need all tangled together.
Viktor pulls up to the private clinic I use for sensitive matters. Discreet. Secure. Doctors who understand that patient confidentiality isn’t optional; it’s survival.
“Stay with the car,” I tell him. “No one gets near her without my explicit approval.”
“Understood.”
I help Elena out, my hand settling automatically at her lower back. She’s trembling. Barely noticeable, but I feel it through the thin fabric of her dress.
The clinic interior is all sterile white walls and quiet professionalism. A nurse greets us immediately, clearly expecting our arrival. Viktor called ahead.
“Mr. Sharov. Mrs. Sharov. Dr. Kuzmin is ready for you.”
We’re led to a private waiting area, small and windowless. Elena sits on the edge of a chair, rubbing her hands together compulsively. Nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
I sit beside her. Too close, probably. But I can’t seem to help it.
My arm drapes over her shoulders without conscious decision. Thumb stroking absently along her collarbone, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
That means something. I’m not sure what yet, but it means something.
“What if it’s positive?” she asks quietly.
“Then we adjust.”
“That’s not—” She shakes her head. “That’s not an answer.”
“What answer do you want?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”
I pull her closer, letting her head rest against my shoulder. She resists for half a second before giving in, exhaustion winning over pride.
“You’re allowed to feel however you feel,” I tell her. “Fear. Uncertainty. Whatever it is.”
“Are you scared?”
The question catches me off guard. Am I?
“Yes,” I admit.
She tilts her head to look at me. “You don’t seem scared.”
