Page 88 of The Pakhan’s Stolen Bride

My hand freezes in her grip.

"I’m serious." She sniffles, her voice carrying a small, desperate threat that makes my heart hit my ribs in a sudden, violent thump. "Your child will go to school with a name like Persimmon. Or Kumquat. Or Peach. I will tell the entire Bratva registry that your heir is named Apple, and there’s nothing you can do about it because you’re asleep."

M-My what?!

I open my eyes.

My voice is a dry, gravelly rasp that sounds like grinding stone in the quiet room. "A fruit?"

Via freezes.

Her hand stays locked in mine, her eyes widening into massive, glassy circles as she stares at my open eyes. Her mouth opens slightly, her breath stalling in her throat, her entire body going completely rigid on the edge of the mattress. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost, her chest rising and falling in short, rapid hitches.

"Ilya..." she whispers, her voice barely a thread.

"If you name my child Apple," I growl, my jaw set, a faint, dry amusement scratching at the corner of my mouth, "I will get out of this bed and throw you into the river."

She lets out a sharp, piercing cry, her hand flying to her mouth as the tears instantly flood her eyes. She throws her entire body forward, her small arms wrapping tightly around my neck, her face burying deep into the crook of my shoulder.

She hugs me with a desperate strength that drives the air straight out of my lungs, but I don't care about the pain in my ribs.

I raise my right arm, my thick, callused fingers sliding into her golden hair, pulling her head close against my chest. I hold her, my body shaking with a sudden, overwhelming emotion that has nothing to do with the physical trauma of the shipyard. She’s warm. She’s real. She smells like lavender, sweet vanilla, and clean—the only safe place left in this entire city.

"You're awake," she sobs, her wet face pressing hard against my collarbone. "You're actually awake, you idiot."

"I'm awake, Via," I murmur, my lips brushing the top of her head, my grip around her waist tightening until she’s pinned flat against my chest. "I’m right here."

We stay there for a long time, the only sounds the beep of my heart monitor and her quiet weeping against my neck. I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth, my fingers tangling in the soft wool of my sweater on her shoulders.

Slowly, she pulls back, her hands coming up to cup my face, her thumbs tracing my cheekbones. Her lips are parted, her split bottom lip carrying a tiny, pale scar where Mikhail had hit her.

My chest tightens at the sight of the scar, a cold, protective rage flaring in my veins. "He touched you."

"He’s dead, Ilya," she says, her fingers gently smoothing the tight line of my jaw, her touch warm and soothing. "You killed him. It’s over."

I look down at her, my eyes tracking her face, before dropping to her stomach. "You said... a child."

Via freezes, a sudden, bright blush rushing to her cheeks as she pulls her hands back, her fingers curling into her lap. She looks down at the white sheet, her bottom lip trembling. "I... yes."

"A child, Via?" I ask. "Our child?"

"I took a test," she says, her voice quiet, a small, shy smile scratching at the corner of her mouth. " I’m... I’m pregnant, Ilya."

I stare at her.

For the first time in my thirty years, I’m completely out of depth. I don't know how to act. I don't know what to say. The concept of a child, of a tiny, fragile heartbeat growing inside her womb is so massive and terrifying, it makes my lungs stall.

A baby. In my house. In my world.

"Ilya?" She looks up, her hazel eyes searching my face with a sudden, quiet worry. "Are you... are you angry?"

"No," I rasp, my hand coming out of the sheet to rest flat over her stomach.

The skin under the black sweater is warm, soft, and completely still. I hold my palm there, feeling the quiet, steady heat of her body, and a sudden, profound reverence washes over my chest so thick and heavy, it makes my eyes sting. I look at her face and I realize I would burn this entire city to ash ten times over to keep both of them safe.

"I’m not angry, little bird," I say, my voice breaking just a fraction as I pull her back down into my chest. "I’m terrified."

She lets out a soft, dry laugh, her arms wrapping back around my neck, her head resting flat over my heart. "Good. It’s about time something made you sweat."