Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67534 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Only when he’s left the room do I exhale. I try to make any sort of sense of what I read. The rational part of me reminds me that he took me without a plan. Maybe that was just a contingency. Maybe Sergei drafted it.
None of that explains why it was the first thing on top of his desk, though. Why was he looking at it? Is there any part of him that’s still considering using me as leverage?
No, he promised to keep me safe. He promised to keep our child safe. He wouldn’t do that to us. He’d rather die than let his enemy hurt his family.
Then the most horrible thought occurs. He’s lying to me. Oh, he cares about the baby, of course. That doesn’t mean he cares about me. He could just be trying to keep me at ease, to keep me calm so that I don’t put any unnecessary stress on the baby. On his heir.
The thought infuriates me. It terrifies me. I wrap my arms around my waist and hold tight, trying to breathe. A few minutes ago, I was actually picturing a future with this man, but who knows what he’s been imagining?
I am still a contingency to him. Sending me back to Mikhail is still on the table. That’s the only answer here. Unable to control my emotions anymore, and knowing he can see me on the camera, I return to my room and close the door.
The tears start falling the moment the door shuts behind me. I sit on the bed and hug my pillow to my chest. I don’t even care about the pain, it just fuels my anger. I took a bullet for him. I actually put my own life on the line thinking that there was any part of him that cared about me.
I’m such an idiot. No Bratva man is ever going to see me as a human being. They’re never going to value me as a person. I am only a pawn to them, a piece in their never-ending pissing contest. The only one who can change that is me.
Viktor doesn’t get to use me. Neither does my father. Neither does Mikhail. I’m in charge of my own fate, and I’m done letting weak-willed men treat me like an object. For my sake and the sake of this baby, I have to forget any friendliness I shared with Viktor and get the hell away from him.
21
VIKTOR
Anya has been off all day. She willfully gets out of bed when the nurse tells her not to, though that’s not necessarily anything new. She’s extra sharp with the guards, though I take that as a sign that she’s feeling better. What’s really off, though, is that she isn’t speaking to me.
I’ve spent weeks learning her patterns. I know when she’s sick and trying to hide it. I know when she’s angry and looking for a fight. Finding out about her pregnancy made me realize exactly how she acts when she doesn’t want me to know she’s feeling off.
Her attitude now reminds me a lot of that, and I’m worried about her. Could there be something wrong with the baby? I thought we’d gotten past the lying phase of our relationship, but apparently, I was mistaken.
I catch her in the upstairs hallway after lunch. She’s moving slowly, one hand grazing the railing for balance when she thinks no one is looking. The nurse is still in her room, changing the sheets.
“I’m fine,” Anya grumbles when she sees me watching her.
“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I say, raising my hands in surrender. “Although it would be nice to know why you’ve been so distant the last few days.”
She stops on the last step and looks at me with a flat expression.
“I’m not being distant.” She shrugs. “I’m just dealing with a lot right now.”
“That’s understandable.” I nod, but I still feel the tension and realize she isn’t making eye contact with me. Something is definitely wrong.
Her mouth tightens.
“Can I get past?” she asks a little harshly. “I was going down to make food.”
“What do you want?” I ask. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“I can make my own food!” she blows up, then looks at me carefully, like she knows that was an overreaction. “I’m not an invalid.”
“I don’t think you are,” I reply, feeling the frustration rising in my chest. “I’m just trying to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” she says, but I hear what she really means.
She doesn’t need my help.
She brushes past me and heads toward the kitchen. I follow her because I’m not letting her dismiss me that easily. We’d finally had a breakthrough. Things between us were good, and suddenly they’re not? It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m going to get my answers.
“Anya,” I say, keeping my voice low.