"And you consult with me on major decisions. Not for permission," I add quickly when I see her expression harden, "but for strategic assessment. I know this world better than you do."
She considers this for a long moment, her teeth worrying her lower lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach. "Consultation. Not control."
"Consultation," I confirm.
"Then we have a deal." She extends her hand, formal and businesslike, as if we're strangers negotiating a contract.
I take her hand, but instead of shaking it, I pull her against me. She gasps as our bodies collide, her hands coming up to brace against my chest, and I feel the rapid hammer of her heart. The anger between us transforms into something else, something that crackles like electricity in the charged air.
"You're learning to play my game," I murmur against her temple, breathing in the scent of her hair. "That's dangerous, Aria."
"Maybe I'm teaching you to play mine." Her voice is breathless but steady. "Did you consider that?"
I pull back enough to meet her eyes, and what I see there makes my chest constrict. Not fear, not submission, but equal parts challenge and desire. She's not backing down. She's not giving in. She's standing her ground and daring me to meet her there.
"You're going to be trouble," I say, but there's no heat in it.
"You have no idea." Her lips curve into a smile that makes my blood heat. "But you're starting to figure it out."
29
ARIA
The leather seat of Nikolai's sedan is cool against my thighs despite the humid night air seeping through the barely cracked window. I press my palm against the tinted glass, watching his silhouette move between shipping containers with that predatory grace I've come to recognize. Even from this distance, even through the distortion of bulletproof glass, I can see the serpent tattoo winding down his neck, dark ink against skin that glows pale under the harsh industrial lighting.
My body responds before my brain can stop it. Heat pools low in my belly, a traitorous warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way he holds himself. Like he owns every inch of space he occupies. Like the world bends to accommodate him rather than the other way around.
I hate that I notice, hate that my pulse quickens when he gestures to one of his captains, his hand cutting through the air with absolute authority. Hate that I'm sitting here, pregnant with his child, watching him conduct business I'm not supposedto witness and thinking about how those same hands felt on my skin.
My security guard shifts in the driver's seat, his eyes scanning the perimeter with mechanical precision. He hasn't spoken since we arrived twenty minutes ago, just positioned the car at the edge of the dock with clear sight lines to all exits. Standard protocol, apparently. Keep the Pakhan’s woman safe while he handles things that would make her uncomfortable.
I press my other hand to my stomach, feeling the subtle swell beneath my sweater. The baby has been active tonight, little flutters that the doctor says will soon become kicks. I try not to think about what kind of world I'm bringing this child into, try not to calculate how many people Nikolai has killed to build his empire, to maintain his position, to protect what's his.
Try not to think about how I'm just another possession he's protecting.
Through the window, I watch him lean against a shipping container, his posture deceptively casual. But I've learned to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near his hip where I know he keeps a gun. He's listening to Cyril, his second-in-command's pale hair catching the light as he gestures toward something I can't see.
The explosion of gunfire shatters the night like glass breaking.
My scream dies in my throat, choked off by shock and terror as men emerge from behind containers like demons materializing from shadow. Muzzle flashes light up the darkness in staccato bursts, deadly fireworks that paint everything in stark relief. I see Nikolai's gun appear in his hand as if conjured, see him dropinto a crouch with fluid efficiency, and I see the first man fall before my brain can process what's happening.
"Get down!" My guard's hand shoves my head below the window line, his body twisting to shield mine. "Stay down, Mrs. Levin!"
But I can still hear everything. The crack of gunfire, sharp and percussive. Shouted Russian that sounds like curses or commands or both. The wet, meaty sounds of bullets finding flesh. My hands shake as I press them over my ears, trying to block it out, but the violence seeps through anyway.
Time stretches like taffy, each second an eternity. My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my teeth, in my fingertips, in the pulse point at my throat. The baby does a somersault in my belly, responding to my spiking adrenaline, and I press both hands protectively over the swell.
"Please," I whisper to no one. "Please let him be okay."
The admission costs me something. I shouldn't care if Nikolai survives this. Shouldn't feel this desperate terror clawing at my chest at the thought of him bleeding out on concrete. He's a criminal. A killer. The man who kept us stranded on an island for his own selfish reasons, who monitors my body without consent, and who's turned my life into something I barely recognize.
But he's also the father of my child. The man who twisted his body to shield mine when we hit those rocks. The man who quotes Pushkin while weaving palm fronds and sometimes looks at me like I'm the only real thing in his violent world.
The gunfire stops as abruptly as it started, leaving behind a silence so complete it feels like the world is holding its breath.
I risk lifting my head, my guard's hand tightening on my shoulder in warning but not stopping me. Through the window, I see bodies sprawled across the concrete in spreading pools of darkness that look black under the industrial lights. Three of them wear suits I recognize. Nikolai's men. The others are strangers, their weapons scattered around them like discarded toys.
Nikolai stands in the center of the carnage, his gun still raised, his eyes scanning for threats with mechanical precision. There's blood on his white shirt, a spray of crimson across his chest that makes my stomach lurch. But he's moving, breathing, alive. Relief floods through me so intensely that it makes my hands shake worse.
