Page 157 of Twilight Sins

More than I want to.

“There wasn’t anything to remember. We have nothing to talk about.”

He’s quiet for a moment as he stares into the depths of his coffee. When he raises his eyes to meet mine, there’s a kind of liquid sadness in them. “Did you know you still talk in your sleep when you’re drunk?” Nik asks. “It’s wild. You have full conversations with yourself. For being unconscious, your enunciation isn’t half-bad, either.”

Blyat’. I haven’t shared a room with anyone in years and I haven’t been drunk in even longer. I can’t risk being hammered if something goes wrong. The only reason I could afford to last night is because I doubled the guards at the house in my absence.

“Don’t you want to know what you said?” Nik continues.

There’s no need. I think I already know.

But it doesn’t matter what I want. What I need is to stay focused on defending the Bratva and my family. I can’t afford distractions.

I finish the last of my coffee. “What I want is to take a shower and figure out how to turn the tables on Akim Gustev. Anything else, I don’t want to fucking hear about it.”

Nik sighs. “You don’t have to shut her out to?—”

“Stay focused and do your fucking job or I’ll find another second.”

Nik’s jaw clenches. Then he nods once. Briefly. Sadly. “You can use my shower, but don’t touch the beard oil. It’s expensive.”

63

LUNA

Morning sickness is a bitch.

Life in general has been a series of bitches lately, but the morning sickness is the bitchiest.

Imagine being in unrequited love with someone, ashamed of yourself for a multitude of reasons, and confused about your future. Then add throwing up once per hour.

That’s called kicking a girl while she’s down, universe. Not cool.

I haul myself to my feet and brush dirt over the pile of vomit I discreetly deposited at the base of an oak tree. I only had a few seconds to decide where to hurl and the oak seemed more durable against stomach acid than the azalea bushes on the other side of the path.

Not that it matters. If things keep going like they have been, I’ll have piles under every plant and bush in the garden.

I thought some fresh air would help my stomach. Yakov’s personal chef, Sanya, has been in the kitchen for the last two days nonstop. Apparently, this is her quarterly deep freeze restock. She’s been simmering rich bone broths, pickling vegetables, and making Georgian dumplings in bulk. At least, that’s the rumor. I haven’t gotten close enough to the kitchen to confirm anything. It’s a vinegary, umami minefield. The moment I step out of my room, I have to run for the toilet.

Being out in the garden helps. Sort of.

If nothing else, being outside might help me keep this secret a little longer. Yakov’s staff would probably start to have questions if I walked around inside with a sick bucket just in case.

Yakov himself wouldn’t have any questions because I haven’t seen him since that night in the kitchen. Aside from our brief, drunken phone call, he’s been a ghost. But I’d like to minimize the amount of people who find out about our baby before he does.

Our baby.

“Holy shit,” I mutter.

That’s the first time I’ve thought about it that way. Yakov and I will have a human in common. A flesh and blood person with his blue eyes and my blonde hair and a penchant for old movies and sweet treats and violent criminal homicide.

Okay, hopefully not the last one. I’m not sure homicidal tendencies are genetic.

But maybe the homicide comes with the “nurture” part of the “nature or nurture” territory. I don’t actually know. Growing up Bratva is obviously complicated.

My mind starts to careen towards the millions of things I still don’t know and can’t begin to decide before I blow out a deep breath and shake my head.

Today, I’m going to focus on keeping down at least one meal. Thinking about how Yakov and I are going to raise a child together should be reserved for after Yakov and I are talking again. If we ever talk again.

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