by Renee Rose
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Something old and distressing coils in my solar plexus. The old familiar anxiety of wondering if things with Jeffrey are going to work out. If we could make it as a couple. If he’d be the dad I wanted him to be for the family I wanted us to create.
I would’ve welcomed this email four months ago. Before I hooked up with Ravil. Maybe even after I knew I was pregnant, when I realized how daunting it was going to be to do this thing on my own.
But now?
Now it’s damn inconvenient.
And still hurts, somehow.
Maybe hurt is the wrong word, but I don’t like the way it makes me feel. It opens old wounds. Me wondering why I’m not good enough for Jeffrey to want to put a ring on my finger. Wondering when he’d be ready. Bending and contorting myself to fit into his very long timeline for when things should happen. Wanting to make it all work perfectly for him, so there could be an us. And then finally realizing his timeline was never going to speed up to the pace I needed it to if I wanted to have a baby before my body got too old.
Eight years we were together. I grieved my decision when I made it, not because it was the wrong one but because I loved Jeffrey. I’d had all kinds of visions of a future with him as the stable, loving husband and father. But those were projections not a reality.
I hit reply.
Hey Jeffrey. I’m actually on bedrest, so I can’t meet today or any time in the near future, but I appreciate your thoughts.
—Luce
His reply is immediate.
Oh my God, is everything okay? Do you want me to come by? What do you need?
Well, crap. Not this. I definitely don’t need this. I blink back tears, thinking that if I really were on bedrest—if Ravil had never shown up, and if Jeffrey had circled back—I’d probably be so relieved to have him back in my life. But only because he’s familiar. Like family.
Not because I believe he’d actually show up the way I needed him to. I doubt he’d stick around and father the baby. He’d just make me hope and grasp at the idea that he would.
But what if it was his? Would he then?
Probably not.
Ugh. I give my head a quick shake. These thoughts aren’t useful in the least. It’s not Jeffrey’s baby, and he missed his chance. I’d thought he’d be a stable and secure kind of dad. The guy who looks good on paper. In reality, would he?
Or would I be the one still trying to orchestrate everything in our lives to make it work for him?
I think of the way Ravil crowded me back against the beach wall, his hand on my belly, his lips at my neck. Our son.
He sounded so awed. We shared the moment equally. If Jeffrey was the father, would he have felt the same reverence? I seriously doubt it. He isn’t uncaring, but he can’t seem to make himself feel much, either. Like he wants to care, knows he’s supposed to care but is ambivalent about everything in his life, especially me.
Ravil wants this baby.
Very much.
He’s not the man I want for my son, he’s not the father I pictured, but at least he cares.
That’s something.
I hit reply and type, No, thank you. I’m fine, just need to follow doctor’s orders for now. Thanks.
A few minutes later, Ravil opens the door without knocking. “Who’s Jeffrey?” he demands.
I frown at him, trying to hide the shiver that runs through my body. His monitoring was definitely not a bluff.
I look at him coolly. “My ex.”
“The man you came to Black Light to forget.”
He remembers. He guessed that night I was on a rebound. It was one of those moments of extraordinary perception that struck me.
I nod.
Ravil regards me, a shadow on his normally impassive face. He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans against the doorframe, his posture deceptively casual. “Get rid of him.”
I raise my brows. “You obviously read the emails. I did my best. I’m following your guidelines, Warden.”
Ravil shakes his head. “Get rid of him completely. Out of your life.”
“Or what?” I snap, annoyed.
“Or I will.” He’s the sort of man who lowers his voice when making a threat rather than raising it, and it sends icicles through my veins.
Genuine fear for Jeffrey makes me grip the edge of the desk. I don’t know much about Ravil, but I imagine he might be capable of terrible things. Including murder.
I stare back at him. “Fine.”
The idea of saying something that would completely cut Jeffrey out of my life turns my stomach sour. We left things amicable—we were kind to each other during the break up. He helped me move into my new apartment when I said I was moving out. There was no fight or hateful things said.
But it’s over. And I don’t want to endanger him.
“I’ll take care of it.” I narrow my gaze at him. “Get out.”
Ravil’s lips purse, and he leaves without comment.
I’m not surprised when he reneges on his plan to let me out for lunch and sends Valentina in with a tray of food instead.
Ravil
I’m not jealous. I’m simply not a jealous man. I learned as a young boy not to covet what someone else has but to work all the harder to surpass them.
Still, it takes me all day to get over being pissed off about Jeffrey.
Blyat.
Dima already had a data file on him, and I review it. I want to kill the man, and all he’s done was show he still cares about the mother of my child. But it brings home again the fact that my lovely attorney deemed me unfit for our child.
And that twat was good enough?
Fuck that.
True to her word, Lucy does send him an email ending things definitely.
Jeffrey,
Thank you for reaching out today, but it’s too confusing and painful for me to open things back up with you. Please respect my wishes and give me the space I need to move on.
Thank you,
Luce
Luce. She’s fucking Luce to him. A spike of irritation rams straight through my forehead at reading the pet name. And painful? Seriously? Was she still mourning that prick?
She Googled Russian porn, I remind myself. She’s over him. At least sexually. At least I have that with her.
And for the rest? Well, fuck. I haven’t even decided if I want more than to use her body for my own pleasure while she’s here. It’s not like I’m trying to win her heart.
Maxim’s summation comes back to me, though. Make her fall in love.
Fuck that. She’ll learn to surrender. That’s all I need from her.
I don’t need her love.
In the afternoon, I call Natasha’s mother, a midwife and birth educator, to come check on Lucy.
Unlike Natasha, who was thrilled with the guaranteed work from me and the fact that I bought her a pregnancy massage table, Svetlana sees the bigger picture and gives me hell. “Why can’t I speak English to her? Why is she locked up?”
“It’s for her own protection,” I reassure her. “She’s carrying my child; if my enemies found out, they’d both be in danger.”
It’s a stretch. I tend to eliminate my enemies pretty quickly. Unless the Ukranians turn into trouble, the only threats I face are from within my organization, and they’d take me out, not my unborn child.
Svetlana narrows her eyes at me. “So you keep her prisoner? Against her will?” The woman knows she lives in a bratva-owned building. That she benefits from it in a multitude of ways simply by being Russian. She’s been happy to accept my generosity and protection without questioning any of my methods until it comes to a pregnant woman.
Her domain.
“Are you refusing to help me?” I ask the question mildly, but the color drains from her face.
“Nyet. Of course, I will do as you ask.” She draws herself up. “But if I see your treatment of this woman endangers the baby, you cannot count on my silence.”
I hold her gaze in si
lence, and unease seeps back into her posture. I’ve known great violence in my life, but I prefer to simply use the aura of danger to get my way. I don’t have to actually do much, I simply suggest a threat.
I learned it from watching American movies. The ones that keep you most on the edge of your seat—the ones that really instill fear are the ones where the danger is unknown. It’s the sound of scrapes and bumps in the dark, the music that makes you jump or keeps you on edge, not the actual plot. The most tension occurs before the audience actually sees what’s making the sounds. Once the danger is actually identified—when the audience has seen the alien or the girl in the well or whatever it is—it loses much of its power.
People’s imaginations usually concoct far worse consequences than the ones I would actually be willing to dole out.
Svetlana swallows, her breath turning shallow. “I don’t mean to threaten you, Mr. Baranov.”
Now I get to be magnanimous. I hold up my hand. “It’s all right. I am glad your primary concern is with the health of my baby and his mother.”
She nods quickly. “Yes, it is.”
“Good. Come and see her.”
I unlock my bedroom door and push it open. Lucy’s at her desk, typing rapidly on her laptop.
“Lucy, this is your midwife, Svetlana. She’s going to check on you.” I wave Svetlana in and shut the door behind us.
Lucy’s long blonde hair swings around her shoulder when she turns. “My what?”
“Your midwife. Svetlana specializes in home births. You have the extraordinary advantage of having your very own midwife right here in this building, so she will be close when it’s time for the birth.”
Lucy swivels in the office chair and stands. “I’m sorry, did you say home birth?”
I lift a brow as if her question is absurd. “Yes.” In all actuality, I wouldn’t be against a hospital birth, especially if that’s what Lucy requires. But I’m playing a game now where I dictate the terms of everything related to her birth.
“I have an ob-gyn,” she glances at Svetlana, “No offense.” She lasers her gaze at me. “And I’m birthing this child at St. Luke’s.”
“Medically managed births result in thirty percent greater chance of injury to mother or child. You’ll give birth naturally here in the building. Svetlana has twenty-five years’ experience delivering babies in both Russia and this country. She teaches child birthing classes, trains doulas and can even provide you with a water birth. You will be in very good hands. Or don’t you believe a Russian is worthy of delivering your child?”
Lucy flushes. “I—Ravil.” She draws a breath and puts her fists on her hips. “Do not pretend for one minute you think I have a bias against your country or its former citizens.”
I cock a brow. “Don’t you?”
Her flush grows deeper, as if the very suggestion of having a bias upsets her. “No.” She glances at Svetlana before looking back at me. “You know my bias is based on your… profession.”
Svetlana chooses this moment to interrupt. Speaking in Russian, she instructs Lucy to sit on the bed. Lucy obeys her gestures.
“Ah, so you claim to have had complete knowledge of my profession—exactly what I do and how I manage my business? You researched this thoroughly before you made the decision to keep our son from me?”
Svetlana pulls out her pressure cuff and attaches it to Lucy’s arm.
Lucy’s gaze drops from my face to the pressure cuff, her cheeks stained with pink. “I already apologized for that,” she mutters.
“No,” I say firmly. “You didn’t.” She may have offered some version of an apology, but it wasn’t for that, and it wasn’t accepted.
She watches Svetlana check her blood pressure and write it in a chart. She steals a glance at the numbers.
“That chart is in English!” Lucy points. “Svetlana, you speak English, don’t you?”
Svetlana is wise enough not to even lift her head or acknowledge the words.
“Come on, I’m supposed to believe she’s a licensed midwife in this country and doesn’t speak English? I’m not a fool, Ravil.”
I fold my arms over my chest, my lips curving slightly. Maxim was right. It didn’t even take her a week to figure it out. “That doesn’t mean anyone will speak English back, kitten.”
I watch that notion settle over her and don’t necessarily like the way it lands. With Svetlana, I wanted to create unease. When I do it to Lucy, it makes something twist in my gut.
Whether it’s a protective instinct for our child or because I can’t stand seeing Lucy knocked too far off balance, I can’t be sure. I’ve always been protective of her, even at Black Light.
Svetlana hands Lucy a test strip and a cup and, in Russian, tells her to pee on it.
Apparently Lucy is familiar with the test because she takes it into the bathroom and returns a moment later and hands the strip back. Svetlana compares the colors on the test strip to her chart. “That’s good,” she says in Russian as she writes it down. She pulls out her stethoscope and listens to Lucy’s chest then her belly.
Svetlana palpates Lucy’s belly then takes out a cone-shaped instrument, placing it on the side of her belly and listening to it.
“Are you listening to the baby’s heartbeat?” I ask.
“Yes.” Svetlana takes her ear away. “You want to hear?”
Blyat.
Like earlier, when Lucy first felt the baby kick, the idea of hearing its heartbeat makes him seem so real. Our baby, swimming inside Lucy right now. I kneel on the floor beside Lucy and put my ear to the small end of the cone. It takes me a moment to focus. To really listen. And then I hear it—the steady, fast rhythm. Our baby’s heartbeat.
So tiny. So faint. So precious. This tiny, helpless miracle will be coming into our lives.
My eyes burn. I blink rapidly as I look up to find Lucy’s gaze intent on me. Her fingertips lift to cover her mouth. “Benjamin,” she blurts.
“Benjamin,” I repeat.
She lets out her breath all in a rush with her words. “I don’t know, it just popped into my head. I think his name is Benjamin.” Her eyes grow bright.
I find her hand and hold it, not moving from my place at her feet. “Benjamin is a perfect name.”
Svetlana gently takes the cone from me and packs it in her bag. I hardly notice as she pulls out a few sheets of paper and sets them on the bed. “Have her fill in her diet to track her protein on that chart. I don’t need to come for another month, but if you want, I’ll come again next week.”
I don’t look away from Lucy’s beautiful face. I love seeing it soft and overcome with emotion, as changed as I am by a baby’s heartbeat. “Yes, next week,” I say to Svetlana, squeezing Lucy’s hand again.
Svetlana leaves, and still I don’t move, except to push Lucy’s knees wide. I stroke my thumbs up the inside of her thighs, dragging the fabric of her skirt up.
Conflict swirls in her eyes. She shifts her pelvis on the bed, probably turned on. Probably against her will.
Then she slaps me. “That’s for telling everyone to speak Russian around me.”
I let it fall, then catch her wrist and bring her fingers to my mouth, sucking one into my mouth.
With her other hand, she cuffs the top of my head lightly. A symbolic act, not a real one. “And that’s for...”
She stops as I take her middle finger and suck it into my mouth. She squirms some more.
“For what?” I ask when I release her finger and move my head to trail light kisses up her inner thigh.
Her breath catches and releases. “For…”
I make the kisses firmer as I grow close to the apex of her thighs, nipping and licking until I reach her panties. I bite lightly over the gusset.
“For hiring a midwife who will give you all the personalized attention you could need?”
Her breath comes out as a soft moan when I push her panties to the side and flick my tongue over her nether lips. Her knees jerk closed, but I push them back o
pen.
“You’re so…” —her fingers bury in my hair, tugging me closer to her as I delve my tongue between her folds— “infuriating.”
I lick up and down her with the flat of my tongue, slide my hands under her thighs to pull her core closer to the edge of the bed.
“When will you stop,”—she breaks off with a cry of pleasure—“punishing me?”
I lift my head and lay a wicked smile on her. “Never, kitten.” I return to laving her with my tongue, penetrating her with it, flicking it over her swelling clit. She grows wet and swollen, and I slide two fingers inside to stroke her inner wall while I coax her clit out to play more. Getting the little nubbin between my lips, I suck hard.
She screams and grips my head with both her hands, tearing at my hair. I pull my lips off before she comes, still stroking slowly with my fingers.
“Not so fast, kotyonok. You think I’m going to reward you after you slapped my face?”
Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s smart enough to know to wait. If she’ll just surrender to me, she’ll get what she needs.
I get up from my knees and untie her dress, pulling the sash all the way out. “Looks like you’ll have to be restrained.”
Lucy
Ravil strips me and ties my wrists together then secures them to the headboard. I lie on my side because back lying is contraindicated now, something Ravil seemed to already know.
If there’s one thing I can’t fault him for, it’s doing his research. I’ll have to do my own now on home and water births.
Slapping him felt good. I’m not the type to slap men. I’ve never done it before, but dammit, he deserves it. And while I’m scared of what he’s capable of, I was almost certain he wouldn’t hurt me.
And he didn’t. He didn’t even get angry.
Probably because he knows he deserved it.
Funny how I can be so angry with him and still crave his touch everywhere. Still want his brand of dominance. It’s like he holds me in a spell. I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to surrender, but my body melts like butter any time he lays those wicked fingers on me. That tongue.