12

Ravil
The desk arrives right on time, and I have the guys carry it in to set up in my room. I follow them in to act as the unnecessary translator.
“Where would you like the desk, Lucy?”
She shoots daggers at me with her glare. “In my own office. In my own home.”
Seeing she chose to sit by the window for breakfast, I direct my men to set it up in front of the window, so she can have the spectacular views of Lake Michigan while she works.
“Spasibo,” she thanks them in Russian when they finish.
I hide my surprise. Crafty lawyer. Of course she’s already teaching herself Russian. My beautiful prisoner is not going to sit back and play Rapunzel for me. She’s gathering her resources and plotting her escape.
The thought makes me smile.
I do so love an able adversary.
Especially one as beautiful as she.
“It’s good you are learning Russian,” I tell her when the men leave. “Otherwise, our son and I will be able to talk about you behind your back.”
She blinks. I’m sure my presentation of the idea of the three of us functioning as a family comes as a shock. Honestly, it surprises me as well, in a decidedly pleasant way. The image of me and our son stopping in at Lucy’s prestigious law firm, our small boy carrying the flower I bought for him to give to her as a surprise flits through my brain. I don’t have any idea why I would’ve manufactured such a fantasy, yet its appeal is real.
Right now, she’s putting on that strong-as-nails courtroom persona. She brings her hands to her hips and draws herself up. I get the feeling she misses wearing the four-inch heels.
“Ravil, this is insane. I will go nuts locked in this room. You want me healthy and calm for our baby? It won’t happen with me confined in here. No matter how beautiful the view.” She gestures to the window.
I tilt my head toward the door. “I didn’t say you cannot leave the room although I will use that as punishment if you misbehave.”
She narrows her eyes. “So what’s with the giant outside the door?”
“If you do leave the room, you will be accompanied by me. Any ventures out will be at my discretion.”
Her lips press together.
I put my hands in my pockets. “Would you like to go for a walk?”
She glances out the window. “Outside?”
“Yes.”
She nods. “Yes.”
I’m tempted to correct her. To make her call me Master, but she’s already pissed off. It wouldn’t go over well now. It may not ever go over again despite her interest in being dominated sexually.
She goes to the closet and slips on the pair of sneakers I packed for her. When she sails past me out through the bedroom door, I let her, dismissing Oleg from his post and following her to the front door.
She hesitates at the doorway, perhaps remembering I stopped her there last night. I reach past and open the door for her, settling my palm on her lower back. “Let’s go, beautiful.”
She slides a sidelong glance my way and steps into the hallway then into the elevator with me.
Downstairs, I stop at the doorman’s desk to introduce her to Maykl. “Lucy, this is Maykl, the doorman and a member of our cell.” In Russian, I say to him, “And this is Lucy, the beautiful mother of my child. Do not allow her to leave here without me at any time. She is my captive. Understand?” I’ve already told him this, but it doesn’t hurt to say it again.
“Understood.” He bows his head with respect. To Lucy, he says in Russian, “Nice to meet you, captive.”
Her gaze drops to his knuckles where he bears a tattoo then up to his face. “Zdravstvuyte.” She greets him in Russian-her accent not half bad considering she probably just started learning today.
His face splits into a grin. “Zdravstvuyte.”
“Come.” A possessive streak flushes through me. I take her hand and lead her out.
“Are we holding hands now?” Her hand is limp in mine.
“Yes. Unless you prefer I handcuff us together?”
She shoots a glance at me as if to check if I’m serious. I’m not, but I don’t smile to let on.
Her hand takes shape, conforming to my palm, holding mine back. It’s a pleasant feeling. I lace our fingers together, instead, and lead her out toward the lake.
It’s a warm summer morning-not too hot yet, especially with the wind off the lake. I lead her to the walking path along the shore. It’s clogged with people out enjoying the gorgeous day. Children running through the sand, shrieking and laughing, people on bicycles, on skateboards, with dogs. A young mother walks by pushing an empty stroller, a fat kicking baby strapped to her chest. He reaches a chubby finger out to point at Lucy, and she stops, smiling at him.
Not a serene smile, but the giant, uncensored smile reserved for babies. The kind that lights up your whole face and makes the birds sing.
My knees go weak at the sight of it on her. I’ve never seen that level of joy on her-not that it isn’t manufactured. But still. It makes me suddenly want to earn that smile myself. It makes me yearn to see her playing with our baby. Holding him in her arms. Or strapped to her chest like the young mother who laughs and coos to her child as she walks away, giving Lucy her own smile back.
Or better yet, I’ll wear the baby strapped to my chest, and then I’ll get to see the smiles, too.
Suddenly, Lucy stops walking, her hand yanking from mine to hold her belly. The people behind us grumble as they jockey past. I push her back against the parapet to get out of the foot traffic.
“Are you all right? What is it?” It occurs to me she could be faking as an escape attempt, but then I see her face is full of wonder.
Her eyes brighten with tears. “He kicked.”
I press my hand to her belly, too. “First kick? Or first time you’ve felt it?” I’d meant to ask her because I’d read that the quickening should be happening soon.
She nods, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
I listen with my fingers.
“There?” she says. “You feel it?” She presses her hand over mine, pushing it deeper into her belly.
Faintly, like tiny bubbles or flutters, I register something. I crowd closer to her, molding my body to hers, taking up all her personal space. “Our son,” I murmur against her neck.
Her breath hiccups.
I brush my lips across her skin.
She doesn’t move her hand from mine. She doesn’t move at all. I nibble lightly. Nip her earlobe, kiss her jaw.
I tip her chin up to look into those downturned brown eyes. “I understand now why they call pregnancy a miracle.”
She studies me, like she’s measuring for the truth. “Yeah,” she nods after a moment of scrutiny. “Me too.”
“This baby is a gift.”
One she tried to keep from me. But I don’t say that. I don’t begrudge her right now. I just want to soak in the moment. The sweetness of our baby kicking.
I sense a current of tension run through her, but I ignore it and lower my lips to hers. I’ve fucked her twice, but it’s our first kiss since Black Light, and I take my time, brushing lightly over softness, nibbling, then finally descending for a full, deep drink from her mouth.
When I pull away, her face is flushed, eyes dilated.
Her body is so responsive to me, even when the rest of her hates me. It makes me want to kiss her again, so I do. And then a third kiss, a punctuation to the first two. I don’t wait for her to process it, but slip an arm around her back and guide her into foot traffic, pacing myself at her speed as we walk a couple miles up and down along the shore.
When she slows down and is breathing hard, I guide her back to my building.
“The people in the neighborhood call it the Kremlin,” I tell her as we approach. Maykl comes around from behind the desk to hold the door open for us. It’s not a courtesy he normally employs-he’s definitely stationed there more for security-but the mother of my child gets special treatment.
“Spasibo,” she says, practicing her Russian. To me, she says, “Do you only allow Russians to live here?”
“It’s not a hard rule, but yes. That’s the way it’s worked out.”
“And is everyone… in your organization?”
“No. Not at all. Most are not.”
She chews on that as we get in the elevator. “What kind of business are you in, Ravil?”
“Imports.” Smuggling.
“Legal?” Smart woman.
I shrug my shoulders and let her interpret that as she will. She nods like she understands perfectly.
“Also microlending.”
She studies me like she’s trying to figure out if that’s legit. “Loan shark?”
I smile. “Not anymore. Most of my clients live in the building. I invest in their small businesses. They either pay me interest or make me a partner. It’s a win-win.”
“Tell me about the fire.”
I shake my head. “That’s Adrian’s story to tell.”
“Did you order it?”
“No.”
“Was it bratva business?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me. “Did you tell Adrian not to tell me the full story?”
I tilt my head to the side. “No, but I did not encourage him to speak, either.” As far as I’m concerned, she doesn’t need to know Adrian’s story unless he wants to tell it, and I doubt he will. I didn’t stop him from trying to burn that building down, and I won’t stop him if he keeps going after the building’s owner, Leon Poval. He has every right.
Adrian is new to America and new to my cell, but if he’d asked for my help in ending Koval, I would’ve given it. I still will.
We arrive on our floor, and I escort her out of the elevator.
Oleg, Nikolai and Dima are in the living room, as usual, when we come in.
“Privet, kak dela?” Lucy calls out brightly. Her accent needs work, but the greeting, “Hi, how are you?” is totally recognizable.
Nikolai exaggerates his surprise, smiling back at Lucy. “She speaks Russian!” he crows in Russian. “I’m good, doll, thank you for asking.”
His twin grins as well. “Yep, all good here. Probably better than you’re doing, considering you’re being held prisoner by our boss.”
“Careful,” I say. “She’s smart. By next week, she’ll probably understand you.”
“By next week, she’ll have figured out we all speak English,” Dima says.
“Privet, Oleg.” Lucy makes a point of waving at Oleg, who, of course, hasn’t responded.
He lifts his chin a notch to acknowledge her.
“Oleg doesn’t speak,” I tell her. “The bratva cell he was in cut out his tongue to keep him from talking about the things he’d seen before they left him to take the fall for it. He spent twelve years in a Siberian prison before he was released and escaped to America.”
Lucy’s eyes round, and she swallows. “I’m sorry, Oleg. How do you say sorry?”
“Izvinite,” I tell her.
“Izvinite,” she says.
Oleg still makes little sign of acknowledgement, which isn’t unusual. The man is like a boulder. Huge, solid and about as expressive. I think when he lost his tongue he stopped attempting to communicate in any form other than with his fists and sheer size.
“Need anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I have work to do.”
I lead her to the bedroom. “Of course. I programmed my number into your phone. Text me when you’re ready for lunch.”
She shoots a hardened look at me. “I’m not eating in the room again.”
I pause in the doorway and pick up her hand, bringing her wrist to my lips. I brush a light kiss over her pulse. “Care to rephrase that, kitten?”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. She doesn’t want to ask me for anything, that much is plain.
She huffs a little. Instead of asking nicely, she lifts her chin and meets my gaze squarely. “Don’t make me.”
That’s about as close as she’ll come to begging, I imagine.
“I’ll fetch you for lunch, then. Twelve o’clock.”
She turns into the room without a word.
“Text me if you’re hungry sooner.” I can’t have her blood sugar getting low.
She flips me the bird over her shoulder, and I smirk because the gesture’s more juvenile than I’d expect from the bad ass professional, but I love it all the same.
I shut the door and call Oleg to sit outside it again.
To watch over my beautiful bird in her cage.