Page 125 of Sinful Bride

Pasha growls in faux irritation before he pecks her cheek and winks at me, then leaves us to it.

I hand Asya the cup I poured for her a few minutes ago. “Thanks for getting her down, by the way. Naps can be like battles with her sometimes.”

“Her father was the same way. Stubborn and willful.” Asya takes her cup with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Just wait for when she starts talking. Then you’ll really be in for it.”

We go out to the living room and settle ourselves on the comfy couch. The tea is sweet and warm and it’s easy to let it turn me into a contended puddle.

What’s not easy is broaching a subject that’s been on my mind, but probably isn’t any of my business.

Actually, it’s definitely none of my business. I just can’t stop scratching the itch in my brain.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.”

Asya sets her tea on the end table and tucks her bare feet up beneath her. “Of course, malyshka. What’s up?”

“It’s about Arlo. And… well, I don’t know. He just said a few things in passing that have me wondering.”

“Things like what?”

“I know I’m overstepping here. I don’t have to?—”

“It’s okay, Daphne. Truly.” Her voice softens like she knows exactly where this is heading. “Ask me anything.”

I could beat around the bush. My heart is racing; I should just play it safe and see if we can string it all together via a series of hints and references.

“Is Arlo Pasha’s father?”

Or I could do that.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as my idiot mouth has gone right ahead and blurted it in the bluntest fashion possible. “I shouldn’t have just?—”

“Yes.”

I pause. “Huh?”

Asya smiles. “Yes, Arlo is Pasha’s father. His real father.”

I don’t know what to say. Should I say anything at all? Do I leave it alone?

Do I go get Pasha?

“I’m guessing you started doing the math.” Asya sighs and stares at her teacup. “I haven’t known how to tell Pasha. Arlo doesn’t know, either. So we just… We figured dropping little hints would lead to some sort of conversation.”

“No one’s asked?”

She shakes her head. “No. Except you. So to answer your question, Arlo and I had…” Tears well in her eyes just as her voice catches. She clears her throat. “We planned to marry, yes? Before everything. It was only a matter of time. And then we found out I was pregnant, so we wanted to do it as soon as possible.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Terrible timing, mostly. Kostya saw me and wanted me; his father wanted the alliance; Arlo’s father wanted the power. I begged my own parents to spare me the arrangement, but once I told them of my condition…”

Things start making sense. Pieces of the biggest puzzle falling together. “Your father pushed it. Pushed for the marriage to Kostya.”

She mutters something in Russian I’m too much of a beginner-level learner to understand. But then she looks at me and translates. “‘Better a premature weakling than a bastard child.’”

“Good God.”

She nods sadly. “Kostya whisked me away and Arlo never got to see me grow with our child. But then Pasha was born and Kostya couldn’t stop bragging about his new son and heir. He kept inviting every Bratva to come see the future pakhan of the Chekhov line.” A faint blush creeps over her cheeks. “So of course, Arlo came to the States as the Fedorov representative. He was, after all, Kostya’s friend.”

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