14. Natalia

14

NATALIA

I still don't know what happened.

It was a chaotic jumble of gunshots and broken glass and rusted fire escapes. Of Andrey's body falling through the air and hitting the ground so, so hard.

Adrenaline and survival instincts carried me through the worst of the nightmare. Then I slipped into this fugue state. When Andrey's men showed up and bundled me into the back of a big, black SUV, I didn't even put up a fight. Because, for some strange reason, I needed to hold Andrey's hand while they drove us to the closest hospital.

Except they drove straight past the hospital.

"What are you doing?" I screamed from the back seat, Andrey's limp hand clamped in mine. "You missed the hospital!"

"That's because we're not taking him to a hospital." The man who spoke had a sharp, aquiline nose and dark, ranging eyes.

"Why the hell not?"

No one answered me. The man—someone called him Shura—and said something in rapid Russian.

"He needs to see a doctor!" I insisted, staring at Andrey's pale, bloodied face.

"Trust me," Shura said. "Andrey Kuznetsov has lived through much worse than this."

I wasn't sure if he was trying to be comforting. If so, he was failing miserably.

When the car finally stopped, Andrey was carried in by two huge men, leaving me to stare up at the gorgeous stone mansion nestled between acres of thickly clustered red maples.

Shura led me to a room on the ground floor and bowed out quietly. I think he meant it to be peaceful—but the moment the door shut, the memories began to unfurl.

I tried to outrun them. I tried to wrestle them back into the special box in my head, the one marked Repressed Memories: Do Not Open, but the gunshots grew louder and my heart raced faster.

The next thing I knew, I was lying in a bed, huddled and shivering beneath the blankets, slipping slowly beneath the dark waters.

A kindly older woman walked in with a basin full of water, but I couldn't even summon the energy to greet her.

"Alright there, dear?" she asked.

It's not like I had an answer for her. A little too much gunplay, I'm afraid. My PTSD is resurfacing with a vengeance. See you in a few hours.

Sure enough, I was out like a light.

It was God-only-knows-how-much later when I came back to my body. To water. A bath. Warm hands, caressing and stroking feeling into my limbs again.

As the sensation slowly returned, it came with the nagging thought that the person bringing me back was the last person who should have the power to.

Now, Andrey pulls a chair to the side of my bed and sits down. His gray eyes are cloudy as they stare down at me. His hair is plastered to the back of his neck.

Why is he wet, too?

Oh, right. He was in the tub with me. The weight I felt at my back… that was him .

I shudder at the thought.

"How are you feeling?" As usual, his expression is perfectly unreadable.

I have no idea how to answer his question, so I ask one of my own. "How long was I out for?"

"Two hours, give or take." He's watching me like I'm a ticking time bomb that could go off at any second. "Does that happen often?"

I shake my head. "Only twice before."

I'm glad he doesn't ask what triggered the previous two episodes. That's a whole can of worms I have zero interest in opening with him.

"We need to talk."

All the warmth I felt in the bathtub has all but disappeared. He's looking at me as though I'm a problem that requires fixing. In his defense, he might not be wrong.

"How long have you known about the baby?"

My hand flickers to my stomach. "I've suspected it for the last few weeks. But today was going to be the official confirmation."

"Why did it take so long?"

"Because, believe it or not, I didn't actually want to be pregnant by some random crime boss. Shocking stuff, I know."

He looks thoughtful. It's making me more nervous than if he was simply angry.

"You can't keep me here," I blurt suddenly.

He looks surprised, then amused. "Why would I keep you here?"

"Does that mean I can leave?"

"You're not a prisoner, Natalia. You can leave whenever you want. I'll take you home when you're ready."

He's lying. This is some joke that I'm on the outside of, and I don't like it one bit. "Right," I say bitterly. "Because you're just such a gentleman."

He gets to his feet. "I wouldn't go that far. But I do want to make sure you're safe. If you want to go back to your apartment, I'll allow it. But that requires certain compromises on your part."

"Compromises…?" My throat is suddenly dry.

"You're going to have security around the clock until I've determined that the danger has passed." He continues right over the sound of my jaw hitting the floor. "I understand it'll be overwhelming, which is why I'll only assign two men to you."

"Two?!"

"I will give you my personal contact number. If you need anything, just?—"

"I don't need security guards, Andrey!" I say. "It's too much. Not to mention an invasion of my privacy."

"Privacy is the cost of safety. Unless you want to be caught in the crossfire again with no way to defend yourself."

I stare at him, openmouthed and helpless. I would love to tell him I can take care of myself, but let's face it: after my pitiful display at the clinic, even the voice in my head is like, Maybe bodyguards aren't such a bad idea.

"Who were those men?"

"Men who will do anything to hurt me. And considering you're carrying my child?—"

"They don't know that."

"Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. Either way, I'm not taking any chances."

I have to remind myself that his investment in my safety isn't personal. It's about the child in my belly. Which only inspires more questions.

"So… does this mean you actually want to be involved in this baby's life?"

His neatly arranged expression doesn't waver. "Like I said, I'm not in the habit of running away from my responsibilities."

"That's the kind of answer a politician would give. Diplomatic and proper on the surface—but it doesn't really answer the question, does it?" One corner of his mouth turns up and I charge on. "What kind of father do you plan to be? The kind who's actively involved or the kind who sees their kid for fifteen minutes every other weekend before the nanny takes over again?"

He's quiet and thoughtful for a while before he answers. "I hadn't really thought about kids. Nor do I think I'll be the perfect father. Far from it. But I didn't have much of a father growing up; I want to do better for my child."

As answers go, it's not the worst one.

"So… co-parenting then?"

"That seems to be the only way forward."

On the one hand, there's intense and abject fear. On the other hand—unadulterated relief. I'm hoping neither one is visible on my face.

I look around the room. Pretty as it is, it's not my space. Right now, I feel a desperate, clawing need to surround myself with familiar things.

"So… I'm free to go?"

"With two caveats."

"Two other caveats, you mean. Bodyguards Uno and Dos count."

He ignores the sarcasm. "You need to rest first. After a nap and a home-cooked meal, yes, you're free to go."

Just like his co-parenting answer, it could be much worse. Still, I'll hold my applause.

"And caveat number two?"

"We keep your pregnancy under wraps for now."

He doesn't offer up an explanation. That only leaves my mind to filter through all the possible reasons he'd want to play the Silent Game with regards to the little bean in my belly, none of which are very flattering.

He's embarrassed to admit he knocked up some nobody loser from Queens.

He's trying to figure out how to get me out of the picture after the baby's born.

He's got a girlfriend or a wife he's trying to hide the baby news from.

Instead of asking, I decide to let it go. Who am I gonna tell anyway? I don't want to worry Aunt Annie just yet. Katya is She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named these days. And aside from that, I have no one.

Whether I like it or not… this secret is staying with me.