37. April

37

APRIL

I wasn't looking to find myself in this situation again so soon: legs spread, eyes fixed on the ceiling, someone moving about between my thighs.

Correction: someone who isn't Matvey.

"A little wider, please." Dr. Allan taps my knee.

With an inner sigh, I obey.

It really couldn't be helped, though. After my mom's class act this morning—a memory I wish I could scrub from my brain—Matvey made an executive decision: an emergency check-up for my baby.

This time, I didn't put up a fight.

Luckily, Dr. Allan was available and dropped everything to come. After hearing the gist of my mom's antics, she spent the first five minutes of the check-up muttering "Unbelievable" under her breath. She's been extra gentle with me, too.

It still feels a bit surreal, being treated like this. Like I've just been through something awful. That was a regular Tuesday night back home. Sure, I wasn't pregnant back then, but Dr. Allan hasn't only been asking pregnancy-related questions; she's been asking about me. How I feel.

Like I said: surreal.

And Matvey…

I still can't wrap my head around it. How he defended me. For over half the conversation, I was terrified Matvey would hold me responsible for making a scene, terrified he'd act on it. He's never raised a hand on me before—he never struck me as the guy who would—but there's a first time for everything.

In the beginning, Tom never hit me, either.

But Matvey stepped in without hesitation. Even after I begged him not to, after I failed, he still took my side.

No one has ever defended me like that before.

"Ew," Petra gags from the couch. "Keep your gushing to yourself."

I roll my eyes. "Emergency check-up" also meant an assigned Bratva babysitter. And since both of my bodyguards were taken away by Matvey for "urgent business," someone had to cover the shift.

Unfortunately, that someone turned out to be none other than my baby daddy's fiancée.

"I wasn't even talking to you," I grumble.

"Don't care." Petra shrugs, flipping her magazine. "No drooling over Matvey where I can hear. It's disgusting."

How about you make like a tree and leave then? "Bold words for his future wife."

"Ugh, don't remind me. You don't know how good you have it."

For some reason, her remark makes me bristle a little. But I quickly push it down—pissing off Illegally Blonde isn't on my bucket list. When it comes to Petra, I get the feeling the find out part never comes much later than the fuck around part.

"And I wasn't ‘gushing', by the way."

"Right—and I'm not wanted in fifteen countries."

"Okay, first: not a flex." I list off on my fingers. "Second: I'm just…" God, why are words so hard? "… grateful."

"Grateful," Petra deadpans.

"Yeah. Grateful. Matvey didn't have to do that."

Petra bursts into laughter. "Yeah, right." Then she notices I'm not laughing. "Oh. You're serious." With a sigh, she shuts her magazine. "Of course he had to, durak. Matvey's an alpha."

"I literally have no idea what any of those words mean."

"God, you're so dumb." I'm tempted to steal Dr. Allan's ultrasound wand and chuck it at her head, but my mother taught me better than that. Namely, that you don't do these things in front of witnesses. "He's territorial. The little komuk 's part of his pack now. That means you are, too."

For a second, I wonder if I've really gone dumb. Hit my head or something. "Are we talking about the same Matvey here?"

"No, we're talking about his good twin. He has the exact same name and face, only he's not a complete asshole."

That sounds boring as hell.

I scold whatever part of me came up with that thought. Bad, bad brain cell! Who told you to unsubscribe from feminism?

"Ha-ha," I fake-laugh. "I still think you've got the wrong guy." Without my permission, my voice turns bitter. "Believe me, Matvey's been crystal clear about where we stand."

"That's because he's an idiot," Petra retorts. "Just because he hasn't noticed yet, it doesn't mean he isn't feeling it."

"B-but…" I stammer. "But I'm not blood."

Petra's eyes roll all the way back into her skull. "Please tell me you're not taking that fixation of his seriously. It's all a pile of horseshit."

I'm stunned. I never expected to hear anyone speak of Matvey's philosophy like this, let alone so openly. "I don't think he sees it that way."

"No shit, Sherlock. That would imply he's willing to question himself." With a graceful leap, Petra hops off the couch and glides towards me. She keeps on the other side of the ultrasound machine, face scrunched up in disgust at everything going on around me—including poor Dr. Allan, who's just trying to do her job and landed herself into a Bratva gossip session instead. "Listen up, koshka : if blood were really that important, everybody would be marrying their siblings, and the world would be filled with hemophilic Habsburgs."

"That's really gross."

"Glad we agree on something."

"I meant the fact that you're a history buff. Seriously wrong with your character."

With a fake smile, Petra flips me off.

"Alright!" Dr. Allan announces. "Everything looks good, but I'd like to review the images to be certain. Is there anywhere I can plug my laptop?"

I point her towards the studio and she hustles off gratefully.

Once she's gone, I put my clothes back on, feeling slightly more dignified. Being in Petra's presence makes you feel naked on your best days, let alone when you're actually naked.

I expect her to leap at the chance to clock out, but she doesn't. Instead, she prowls around the room like a lioness staking out uncharted territory.

And then, out of the blue, she says, "Your mom must be a real piece of work."

I blink. "Beg your pardon?"

It's not like she's wrong, but still. Would it kill her to use a little tact once in a while?

On second thought… it might.

Petra purses her perfect lips. "Matvey isn't known for going nuclear on women," she muses. "Believe me, I've pushed every button there is."

"Ew! I did not want to know what!"

"Pot, kettle, whatever."

I'm tempted to slam my palms over my ears and go la-la-la until my unwanted babysitter finally gets the memo. Unfortunately, that stops being an option the second you turn twelve. Being twice that age, I really can't indulge. So instead, I say, "Isn't that the case with most moms?"

Petra's silent for a while. "I wouldn't know," she admits eventually. "I never had one. She died in childbirth."

The words are an ice bucket on my head.

I must have gone pale, because the next words out of Petra's mouth are, "Oh, don't worry. Medical science has improved by leaps and bounds since then." She waves it off like it's nothing. "And if I'm the reason you're making that face, don't. I don't need anyone's pity."

I'm sorry for your loss. The words are already in my throat. But I force myself to swallow them back. Instead, I say something else. A question. "Your father… He never remarried?"

I don't know where it came from. Maybe I was just thinking about mine: how he was married again before his divorce's first anniversary.

Hopefully, Petra's father didn't find another Nora, but someone else. Someone who actually wanted to take care of her.

But all Petra does is shake her head. "He's much too hung up on honor," she explains. "To a traditional man like him, marriage is for life. Though that does mean he didn't get any male heirs," she adds with a bitter smile. "He's stuck with a princess instead. That's why he's looking to put his crown on Matvey's head. He's traditional that way, too."

Traditional. I never knew Petra to mince words, but for her father, she makes an exception. Otherwise, she'd be calling it like it is: sexism, pure and simple.

This is ridiculous. I hate Petra's guts. If nothing else, she certainly hates mine.

So why am I feeling bad for her?

Then she walks up to me. Her eyes find my belly, for once without the vitriol she usually reserves for it. "For your sake, April, I hope your little one is a boy," she murmurs. "In this world, boys get everything."

Her gaze is intense. I find myself squirming under it, huddling on myself as if fighting cold winds. This must be the cold she grew up with—the ice she learned to make into a weapon.

"I wouldn't know," I reply in the end. "I asked Dr. Allan not to tell me."

Petra's eyebrow rises. "A romantic. Color me surprised."

For some reason, that drags a laugh out of me. "Not exactly. I just… There's so many expectations, you know? Once you're born, everybody expects something from you. Especially your parents. So, even if it's just for a bit… I wanted this baby to be free."

I brace myself for Petra's sarcasm, but it doesn't come. "Maybe that's why it doesn't want out, then," she says softly. "Freedom's nice. Gotta enjoy it while it lasts."

I must be wrong. That can't be a smile, can it? A genuine one? On Petra ?

"Anyway," she exhales, "it's not a problem I'm ever gonna have. Kids, expectations, any of it."

"You don't want kids?" I ask, forgetting that there's another possibility out there. That maybe, aside from not being able to have a mother?—

She might not be able to be one, either.

But Petra just laughs. "I can't even make vor like this. How's a pregnant candidate gonna go over?"

Wow. I had no idea the Bratva was this similar to the job market. Maybe going into crime isn't easier after all. For girls, at least.

"What about after?" I try. "Let's say you're vor. You have Manhattan wrapped around your little finger. Would kids be on the table then?"

Petra seems to entertain the thought. She looks amused by the tale I've spun, world domination and all. "Me? A mother?" she laughs. "That's rich. Can you imagine?"

"Actually, I can."

Petra's face colors with surprise. Crap, did I say the wrong thing? Is this how my big mouth finally gets me killed?

But she doesn't whip out her gun, only her phone. Then she starts checking the time, tapping her foot, fidgeting with the case. Almost like she's embarrassed.

" Blyat' ," she mutters, glancing impatiently towards the studio Dr. Allan's disappeared into. "Did your damn doctor fall asleep or what?"

I bite the inside of my cheek.

So even an assassin can blush.