31. Viviana

He didn't use a condom.

The realization should have hit me sooner. Preferably in the moment before I pulled my panties to the side and practically begged Mikhail to fuck me in a cramped car parked in some random, dirty alley.

But no. I never even considered the consequences.

This is what happens when you spend six years getting orgasms from various battery-operated devices. Toys don't have sperm. Toys can't get you pregnant. Toys can't seduce you with their gravelly voices and calloused hands until your brain is mush and your body is on fire.

But Mikhail can.

Case in point: the five-year-old boy sleeping across the hall.

The last thing I need in my life right now is another Bratva baby. No siree. I scrub my loofah between my legs a little harder, like that might undo what we've done.

When I get out of the shower, I'm sore both inside and out. I debate leaving this one to chance. Surely I won't get pregnant after one time, right? Then I once again remember the five-year-old boy sleeping across the hall, pull on my big girl panties, and text Stella. I have a feeling she'll be more discreet about it than Anatoly or Raoul would be.

This is no big deal at all, but if you could pick me up some Plan B if you're out, that would be great. No pressure. Thanks!

No problem, she texts back a minute later.

No follow-up questions. No nosing into my personal life.

I knew I liked her.

Thirty minutes later, there's a soft knock at my door. I answer it, expecting to find Stella on the other side with a nondescript paper bag. We'll exchange it without a word like we're making an illicit drug deal and then never speak of this again.

Instead, I find an entirely-too-amused Anatoly leaning against the door frame.

"Someone had some fun after I left today, huh?" He waves the box under my nose. I snatch it out of his hand and try to close the door, but he wedges it open with his foot. "Sorry, but the delivery boy needs a tip."

"Here's a tip: remove your foot from my door before I chop it off."

He snorts and pushes his way into the room. I'm still standing by the door as he flops onto his side on my bed, his head propped up on his beefy arm like a gossiping girl at a sleepover. "Tell me everything."

"Or I tell you nothing and you leave."

He pouts out his lower lip. "If you keep treating me like this, I'll start thinking you don't want me around."

"I'm glad you're finally picking up all my subliminal messaging."

It's not true. Anatoly is the closest thing to a friend that I have in this house.

Unfortunately, he's also Mikhail's brother. Which is wild to think about. Anatoly's mother must have been a real fun-loving gal, because he certainly didn't get his temperament from his father.

"You and Mikhail are perfect for each other," he complains, rolling onto his back. "Neither of you want to tell me anything."

Curiosity gets the best of me and I softly close the door. "You talked to Mikhail?"

"I tried when you guys got back. He wasn't in a chatty mood."

The drive home was silent. Mikhail didn't say a word. Just like the last time we kissed, he shut down and pulled away.

The difference was, I didn't have anything to say, either.

"Has Mikhail ever been chatty?"

"No," he grumbles. "Especially not after he's been with you."

Even after my very abrasive shower, I can feel Mikhail's body against me. The way he stroked my face after he pulled me out of the road. I can hear the torment in his voice as he led me to the car.

What are we doing, Mikhail?

I have no fucking idea.

I blink and realize Anatoly is staring at me. His smirk is gone, replaced with something more pensive.

I twist away from him, opening and then closing a drawer I don't need anything out of. "I doubt his mood has anything to do with me."

"Bullshit! You two are so wrapped up in each other, it's ridiculous. Take that, for instance." He gestures to the box of emergency contraception in my hand. "You literally can't keep your hands—and other body parts—off of each other. But when I come asking, no one knows a thing. Nope, nothing to see here. Just incontrovertible evidence of spontaneous, unprotected sex."

"Or maybe it's just none of your business," I snap. "How did you get this anyway? I texted Stella."

"And Stella texted me," he says casually. "She knew I was out, so she asked me to pick it up on my way home. I got some suspicious looks from the pharmacist, let me tell you."

"Stella could have at least pretended it was hers," I mumble.

"Except I know she isn't seeing anyone."

"People can have sex without being in a relationship," I argue. "You should know—you've done it hundreds of times."

"Yeah, but that's me. Stella is… different." Anatoly frowns like something is only just occurring to him. Then he shakes his head, clearing it away. "Before she even explained, I knew that little delivery was for you two lovebirds. How was it? Explosive? Magical? Like a fairytale?"

"This little delivery should be all the sign you need that whatever happened between Mikhail and I wasn't a fairytale moment. It wasn't a happily ever after; it was a stupid mistake. One I plan to rectify."

I tear open the box and rip through the silver pill pack.

"Would it be so bad?" Anatoly asks softly.

I said the same thing to Mikhail at the restaurant. Would it be so bad if I loved him? If he loved me?

Mikhail's response is still fresh in my mind. It's easy to parrot it back to Anatoly. "Letting your emotions dictate your life is the quickest way to losing control. And I have no interest in losing control."

Swallowing the pill feels like trying to swallow a rock. But I chase it with a long drink of water from the bathroom sink.

When I walk back into the bedroom, Anatoly is shaking his head. "I think it would be nice. Dante would love to have a sibling."

"Dante doesn't know what he wants," I spit. "He's a little kid. It's why I never wanted him in this world in the first place. I want him to have a choice. To be able to decide his future. Here, it's all laid out for him."

"It wasn't for Mikhail."

I frown. "What does that mean?"

"Mikhail was the second son. The spare. But he rose up and took what he wanted. Dante could do the same thing. Fuck knows you and my little brother are both stubborn enough. I'm sure that will rub off on Dante. Nothing is predetermined."

I lean against my dresser, suddenly exhausted. "If you think reminding me that the father of my child overthrew his own brother so he could become the pakhan is going to make me feel better, then I'd suggest never trying to make me feel better ever again."

"What I'm telling you—" Anatoly sits up, hands folded in his lap. "—is that Mikhail isn't like Trofim or my father or your father. He makes his own path. He always has. I mean, he married you, even though he?—"

"Even though he what?" I press.

"Even though he could have just taken Dante away," he continues smoothly. "He chose to take care of both of you. You're safe with him."

I'm safe with him… as long as I stay under his thumb and do what he says. I'm safe with Mikhail… as long as he can control me. As long as he doesn't find out how far I was willing to go to stay away from him.

That's not safety.

That's a ticking time bomb.

"Even if that was true, it's not a good enough reason to have another baby."

The last thing I need is one more person who is counting on me to take care of them. I can try to play this game as long as I can—toe the line, do what is expected of me. But if Mikhail ever finds out what I've done, I'll be just like Trofim: a memory and a pile of ash.