The Director (Chicago Bratva 1)

I’m irrationally happy at that. Only because when a pregnant woman has a craving, it really does feel like the end of the world if she doesn’t get it. I swear, sometimes I get so hungry I want to cry. I haven’t resorted to ordering takeout at ten at night or whatever time it is now, but I sure have wanted to.

Ravil’s gaze roves over my naked body.

I don’t hate being pregnant like some women do. I actually thought I might, but after I broke up with Jeffrey, I’d really feared it was too late for me. That it would never happen. And so, until now, this baby has felt a bit like a miracle. I relished all the changes my body’s gone through. Even the less-than-pleasant ones like getting up to pee twice in the middle of the night and wanting to cry at sappy commercials.

Still, no one has seen me naked since I changed shape.

“Prekrasnyy,” Ravil murmurs.

“What does that mean?”

“Beautiful. Truly. I’ve never seen anything or anyone so beautiful in my life.”

Three things simultaneously grow warm—my chest, my neck and my lady parts.

“What else can I get you, kitten? More of this?” He holds out the glass of cucumber water.

“May I just have some plain water?” The cucumbers were nice at first, but they don’t sound good anymore.

“Of course.” He picks up his phone again. When he gets off, he tugs down the covers of the bed. “Come. Cover yourself. Or put on your pajamas. If my men see you naked, I’ll have to kill them.”

I shoot a glance at his face because I’m not sure how serious he is. Does he really feel possessive of me?

He doesn’t smile.

Okay, then.

That sets my thoughts on a hamster wheel. Does he think I belong to him now? Is he claiming me along with this baby? Or do I have some chance of him letting me go? Of course, I wouldn’t want to leave without my baby, and he knows that. In fact, that would be the worst possible outcome.

So should I want him to claim me as his, too?

That thought’s too crazy to even consider.

I pull on my camisole and pajama shorts and climb under the sheet. He hands me my laptop with my phone resting on top of it.

“Listen to me, Lucy.” He doesn’t release his hold on the laptop when I try to take it from him.

I meet his icy blue gaze.

“You will do as I said. Tomorrow you will call your office and tell them you must work remotely. You may call, email or be in touch with anyone you need to do your job, but I will be monitoring your communications. One word—one plea for help or hint about your situation, about me—and you go to Russia. If you return—and that’s a big if—it will be alone. Understand?”

I pick up the glass of cucumber water and throw it in his face. It’s childish and stupid but fuck him. “I hate you,” I spit.

Ravil doesn’t move. He blinks the water droplets from his lashes as he regards me coolly. “Be careful, kitten. I can take away privileges, too.”

I close my eyes because I feel tears coming on again, and I don’t want him to see. “I hate you,” I repeat.

He shakes his head. “Don’t say it again. Our son is listening.”

It’s a crazy thing for him to say. I’m not sure if he actually believes it or not, but it gives me pause. Gretchen, my best friend from law school, would say he’s right—that the baby would feel it energetically.

“Your son was listening when you threatened to take him from his mother, too,” I retort. “Don’t threaten me again.” There’s a wobble in my voice that I hate.

He pins me with his blue gaze. “All right. You understand our arrangement?”

“I understand,” I say tightly.

“Good. I have no wish to threaten you again.”

The tears burn behind my eyes once more. I force myself to swallow. I’m saved from his scrutiny by a knock at the door.

He yanks the sheet up higher on me before he calls out in Russian.

The door swings open, and Pavel comes in with one tall glass of ice water and one without ice. He looks at me and says a few sentences in Russian. I’m guessing it’s something like he didn’t know which way I liked the water, so he brought both.

“Thank you.” I reach for the ice water.

“Pozhaluysta,” Pavel says. His smile is warm and friendly, like I really am a guest and not a prisoner. I find myself lifting my fingers to wave at him when he turns to say something at the door.

“Pozhaluysta. Does that mean you’re welcome?”

“Yes. And also, please,” Ravil says.

“Does anyone here speak English besides you?”

“I will be your translator.”

Oh no. Screw that. Does he think I’m stupid? If I’m going to be prisoner to a building full of people who only speak Russian. I’m sure he loves the idea of me being helpless around here, but that’s not what’s happening. I’m signing up for Russian lessons on that language app first thing tomorrow. By the time that baby’s born, I’m going to be fluent in Russian.