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.”