9. Natalia

9

NATALIA

I plop into my seat after visiting the copier, my desk swirling in my vision. I have to grip the arms of my chair to try to right the world before I faint and/or yak my lunch up everywhere.

It's been happening more and more lately, ever since I moved out of the manor—unofficially speaking—and into Katya's tiny, cramped one-bedroom apartment.

I could sit and wonder why it's happening, but it would be a waste of time. I mean, take your pick: I'm pregnant, I haven't been sleeping, my entire life is balanced on a razor's edge and I don't know which way it's going to fall. There are no wrong answers.

It's a recipe for another imminent breakdown.

The most confusing part?

The main reason for my problems might also be my antidote. In other words: the tall drink of water with a killer, if elusive, smile.

I haven't heard from Andrey since I decided three days ago that I wasn't going back to the manor. I decided to take a stand for myself.

And he decided to punish me with indifference.

Also, added security.

Mindy appears at my desk with a stack of files. "These need to be taken to Mr. Ewes. Can you handle it or should I?"

I've been getting a lot of those questions recently. Can you handle this? Are you okay? You look dizzy—do you need to sit down? A result of the accessory putting all of my maternity clothes to the ultimate test. "All good, Mindy. I'll take them to him now."

But even as I rise to my feet, my head spins and my knees threaten to buckle.

I just pulled a muscle during prenatal yoga this morning. That's all.

Kat and I cleared out her living room so that we could get in a yoga sesh before work every morning. It's about the only thing that relaxes me these days. And considering the number of worries percolating in my head—Misha, Remi, Andrey, this, that, and the other—I need all the help I can get.

One step in front of the next, Nat. Just keep walking.

I manage to get all the way to Richard's office before the dizziness wins out over my resolve. I teeter to the side, gripping his desk and sending half the files careening to the floor.

"Oh, God," I gasp, mortified. "I'm so sorry."

Richard bends himself in two trying to help me pick up the scattered papers. He's been inordinately nice to me ever since Byron's "resignation" and my "promotion." Every time he looks at me, there's this crease that appears just between his eyebrows. A crease that might as well say, Andrey Kuznetsov Was Here .

"Why don't you sit down, Natalia?"

The plan was to apologize my way out of the office and retreat back to my desk to collapse, but another dizzy spell hits me, and I find myself sinking into a chair as Richard brings me a glass of water.

"You don't look so good," he remarks.

"Just what every pregnant woman wants to hear."

He actually pales. "I didn't mean to offend?—"

"You didn't offend me," I assure him. "I was just joking. Thanks for the water."

He breathes out a sigh of relief. Almost like he's scared I'm gonna report back to Andrey and he's gonna have a giant shit-storm on his hands. Oh, who am I kidding? That's exactly what he's scared of.

He leans against the desk. "Are you doing okay?"

Well, let's see: I'm having a crime lord's babies, I'm basically his hostage for all intents and purposes, and I may or may not have shot him accidentally-on-purpose…

Oh, and there's that other small, unimportant detail…

I might just be head over heels in love with the guy.

"There's a lot going on in my life right now," I admit. "I'm just… coming to terms with it all."

He nods and clears his throat. "I think it might be a good idea if you were to take some time off. It might give you the chance to get your head on straight."

It's a nice suggestion. So why does the thought of taking a sabbatical fill me with such dread?

Because then you'll be all alone with your thoughts. Duh.

"No," I insist. "I need to work."

He doesn't push, but the crease is back between his eyebrows. "Why don't you finish that glass of water and go home early then? Get some rest."

This time, it's not a suggestion.

With a reluctant nod of thanks, I head back to my desk, dreading the idea of going back to Kat's apartment. I know I'm the one who chose to live there, but that doesn't ease the loneliness clawing at my chest.

The loneliness only one person can ease.

My phone pings with an incoming message, and if his name flashing on my lockscreen is a sign from the universe, I choose to ignore it.

ANDREY: Come over for dinner tonight. We can talk.

Only Andrey can turn what should be a romantic question into a command. What's even more annoying? It's actually a turn-on.

Things are simple when I let him make decisions. He's fearless. He doesn't question or second-guess. He just does.

What a way to live that must be.

But if I want to be in charge of my own life, my child's life, I can't succumb to that easy temptation of letting Andrey control me . I have to stand up for myself. For both of us.

Even if a part of me wants to be ordered around.

NATALIA: I don't think that's a good idea right now. But I will come over to get Remi.

ANDREY: Dinner will be on the table either way. It'll give you a chance to spend some time with Misha. Or should I tell him you're busy?

Apparently, I won't let him order me around. But I will let him manipulate me.

Damn him.

NATALIA: No, I'll make the time.

ANDREY: I'll let him know.

The "checkmate" is very much implied.

Okay, I'll admit it: since Andrey was the one who issued the dinner invitation and suggested we "talk," I kind of expected him to actually show up for dinner.

Instead, it's Misha and me side-by-side at one corner of the sprawling dinner table, suffering in the thickest of silences.

It was clear the moment I arrived that Misha wasn't in the best mood. He's claimed it has to do with a lot of different things —his concussion, physical therapy, tutoring lessons—but stops just short of saying, "Actually, this is all your fault, Natalia."

He doesn't need to say it. I already know.

"I can leave Remi, you know?" I offer for the third time since I got here.

He shakes his head. "No. Remi's yours. Not mine."

"It's not forever," I tell him gently, patting his wrist. "I just need some space from this place. And from Andrey."

"Or what? You'll shoot him again?" I raise my eyebrows and he flushes with instant regret. "Sorry."

"Low blow, but I deserve it."

"No… no, you don't. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that." He picks at the orzo on his plate, pushing it around with his fork. "I just hate being cooped up here all the time."

"It's just until the concussion clears."

He grimaces, his fork clattering against his plate. "I'm sick of being useless."

"Misha! You're not useless."

He avoids my eyes and turns to Remi, who's got his head resting on Misha's thigh. "Don't forget to take his bone toy. It's his favorite."

"Kat's place is just so small. Otherwise, I could have arranged for you to?—"

He pushes up from the table, sending his chair skittering back with an angry screech. "I'm going to bed. I'm tired."

I have no choice but to watch him shuffle from the dining room, his shoulders slumped.

Remi whines, but he doesn't follow Misha. It's like he understands that he's coming home with me today.

"Okay, buddy," I sigh, scratching Remi behind the ears. "Let's get your stuff and go, huh?"

Except his stuff seems to have disappeared in the three days I've been away. There's nothing in the pool house or in the garden shed.

Even more suspicious: neither Mila nor Leonty seem to be around.

In fact, no one is.

With no other recourse, I resignedly make the long trek into Andrey's office. I don't really expect him to be inside. I mean, if he was, why wouldn't he join us for dinner? But when I open the door, Andrey is sprawled across the sofa, his long legs dangling over the side.

Some pitiful part of me jumps at the sight of him, desperate to get close.

There's no surprise on his face when I walk in, so I do my best to hide mine.

"Where are Remi's things?"

Remi sniffs at the coffee table between us, eyeing the whiskey glass sitting on a coaster as though he'd like to take a lick.

"Good evening, Natalia. Nice to see you as well."

Scowling, I cross my arms over my chest. "You purposely hid his things so I'd have to come in here and speak to you."

He doesn't deny it as he pushes up and gestures to the chair behind me. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I'd rather stand, thanks. Remi's things?"

"Here. Which is where they'll stay."

My frown deepens just as my heartbeat picks up speed. "Listen, I'll bring him back for his training regularly, but I do need his stuff."

"You don't need anything," he says, rising to his feet. "Because Remi's staying right here. As are you."

I search his face for some sign of a punchline. There's none to be found. "What do you mean? I'm staying with Katya."

"Not anymore. A situation's come up and it's better that you stay at the manor from now on."

I gape at him like an idiot. "What kind of situation?"

"A few men were spotted outside Kat's place this morning," he supplies. "Another group of men were seen just outside Sunshield as well. All on Nikolai's payroll."

I can't pretend that news doesn't affect me. But a part of me does question it. It sounds like something someone who wanted me to move back under his watchful gaze would say.

"Does it matter? You have a whole army shadowing my every move."

"I'm afraid that's not going to cut it. Until the threat has passed, this is your home."

"But I left because I needed— I want—" I blow out a harsh breath. "I need space."

Space I can't get when Andrey demands so much of my attention. Being in such close proximity to him feels more dangerous than ever.

"I know, lastochka ," he says. "Unfortunately, you're going to have to find space under this roof."

To which I say: "Fuck. That."

I get as far as the foyer before I'm stopped. Leif towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking the front door working in direct contrast to the apologetic grimace on his face. "Sorry, Nat, but I can't let you leave. Pakhan's orders."

There are a trillion different comebacks burning on the tip of my tongue—maybe even a right and left hook—but Leif doesn't deserve them. He's only following orders, same as the rest of us.

So I swallow down my unkind thoughts, whip around, and make straight for the son of a bitch who does deserve to hear them.

When I burst back into his office, Andrey doesn't bother to look up from his papers. "Back so soon? What happened to needing space?"

"You're already holding me hostage here. There's no need to belittle me on top of that."

His impassive expression doesn't change, but he rounds the table and walks over to me. "I'm not belittling you, little bird. I'm trying to keep you safe."

Those silver eyes hold me captive as he brushes his knuckles against my cheek. Heat courses through me, and I somehow find the willpower to step away from him.

"Come," he says, taking my hand. "Let me show you to your room."

There's something so comforting in letting my fingers lace through his. In letting him lead me. He could be guiding me straight to hell, and I'd just be following along blindly, happy to be holding his hand.

Getting a hold of myself, I pull my hand from his. "I know the way to the pool house."

"I'm not taking you to the pool house."

That's when I realize we're not heading outside, but up the stairs.

Pure curiosity is the only thing that drives me to follow.

That and the perfect view I have of his ass. He's fighting dirty, it seems.

He leads me back to the gargantuan guest bedroom where I spent the first few days post-escape, except… it's different.

There are new shelves on the walls and pictures I remember decorating the pool house with. The baby grand piano is tucked into the window nook.

"What's this?" I demand as Remi makes a run for the window seat and nestles himself between the cushions.

"It's your room."

My glare turns suspicious. "The pool house suits me just fine."

"I said you'd have to stay under my roof for the time being. My roof, specifically." He sweeps a hand around to encompass the room. "All your things have been brought here from the pool house. Including the stuff you left at Kat's. You'll find everything you need."

He actually has the audacity to move towards the door, as though the conversation is over.

"Everything I need except peace of mind," I blurt.

He pauses. Lingers. "I'm working towards that."

An inexplicable tremor travels down my spine. It's not what he says or how he says it—Andrey Kuznetsov is far too practiced at holding his emotions in to give anything away that cheaply. But if I look close, if I squint and tilt my head… I could swear I see genuine fear in his eyes. Just a glimpse of it. But enough.

"How serious is this situation?" I croak.

Andrey lets the silence sit for a moment. "I'm not going to let anything hurt you, lastochka ," he says at last, a fire in his eyes that feels like it could burn me if I get too close. "I failed Maria. I will not fail you."

The lines of his face could be carved from stone. But as beautiful as he is, he also feels untouchable. He feels far away, removed from me by the weight of some unspoken responsibility he's taken upon himself.

The chasm between us ripples and bends. There are moments when it feels insurmountable and moments when it feels like it's shrinking and I could jump across, if only I was brave enough.

Right now, I'm caught in between, straddling a fine line between what I want and what I need.

"You really loved her, didn't you?"

I don't know why I ask. A part of me knows that hearing him confirm it will make me bitterly jealous. Another part of me is hopeful—if he's loved one woman before, then maybe, just maybe, he could love another.

You shouldn't want his love. His love is dangerous.

"She was mine to protect," is all he says.

He takes a hesitant step towards me so that we're practically nose to nose. Or chest to nose, as the case may be. One hand strokes my belly and the other curls around my chin, tilting my face up to meet his.

His whiskey breath warms my face. I could bask under the silver glow of his eyes forever. It helps clear out the white noise, the terrifying images in my head.

"I know you want to keep me safe," I whisper. "I just don't know that you can."

His head dips down. For a moment, I think he's going to kiss me. What will I do if he tries? Slap him? Pull back? Give in?

"My enemies don't know what I'm capable of, lastochka . And neither do you."

Then, just like that, he's gone.