Page 75 of Nanny for the Bratva Daddies

Wait. The pregnancy test.

I completely forgot I’d shoved it into my pocket at the pharmacy. Two blue lines stare up at me from my palm, taunting me with news I can’t share. Might never be able to share. Something so good soured so quickly, all because some assholes decided gunning down a restaurant was a good way to spend the afternoon.

I toss the test into the trash and close the door, putting it out of my mind. Right now, my men need my focus.

White light surrounds me from the floodlights lining the pool as I head toward the conservatory. Sinking into Zasha’s arms sounds like heaven right now. The scent of chlorine tickles my nose, and above me, a blanket of stars stretches in all directions as far as the eye can see. It’s oddly surreal to be back here, to see things so normal when Dariya is in the hospital.

“Zasha?” Knocking lightly on the conservatory door, I let myself inside.

“Naomi?” Zasha, previously lounging on the bed in only his boxers, rises as I enter. He places his book down on the nightstand and his gorgeous white-blonde hair spills like silk over one shoulder.

“Zasha.”

“What happened? They told me nothing and I’ve been so worried. Daniil only told me that I need to keep you safe.”

He approaches with long steps, his skin golden from the low light of the lamps dotted around the room. I take a breath, and his warm floral scent floods my senses. The moment the backs of his gentle fingers brush my cheek, I crumble.

The dam breaks and all my carefully controlled emotions surge forward.

“Oh Zasha, it was so awful!” The tears I held at bay in the hospital pour forth like a tidal wave. I sob violently, gasping for air while tears leak down my cheeks and my hands tremble.

Without pause, Zasha scoops me up into his arms and carries me swiftly back to his bed. I wind my arms around his shoulders, bury my face into his warm neck, and sob. He settles back onto the bed, cradling me in his lap and the comfort unlocks a fresh wave of tears, along with a whole host of fresh pain.

“I have you,” Zasha says, his voice low and soft. “You are safe here with me. I have you.”

I cry for Dariya, for the sight of her in Fyodor’s arms. I cry for Fyodor and the pain that ripped out of him. I cry about my pregnancy and the building guilt for even daring to think about something like that at a time like this. It’s selfish of me and that makes the guilt worse.

Zasha’s arms remain a protective cage around me. He kisses the top of my head, rocks me back and forth, and rubs my back while making soothing murmurs in his throat.

His gentle affection makes me cry harder as if I don’t deserve his kindness.

I sob until I have nothing left. No grief to give, no tears to shed. I’m numb and exhausted.

“We were having lunch,” I begin hoarsely. “And there was a drive-by. Dariya got shot and the noise Fyodor made, I—I can’t get it out of my head. Or the sight of her in his arms.”

“Oh my God,” Zasha breathes.

“She’s had surgery, but it’s touch and go. So many of his security team died too. So much death. Everyone is hurting and I can’t do anything to help them; it was so scary, but I feel guilty for thinking that because it could have been so much worse.”

“Hey.” Zasha brings one warm hand to my cheek and encourages me to look up at him. “Your feelings in this situation are valid. And it is not a competition. As I have been reminded, you are not of this world, and if you are scared and hurt, then it is okay to feel that. Here, you are safe.”

Staring into his gorgeous eyes, the guilt swells. I am from this world.

Is what happened today anything like what my mother witnessed as a child? Did a disaster like this set her on a lifetime hell-bent on revenge?

If so, I think I understand her more given Fyodor’s reaction.

“I feel selfish hearing you say that,” I whisper up at him.

“It is not selfish to feel. In tragedy, everyone affected is entitled to their pain. You must feel yours, else it will nestle inside you and become poison.”

Maybe that’s more like my mother.

A needy urge for affection rises in my chest, so I tilt my chin up and tentatively kiss Zasha’s dry lips. It’s uncertain and cautious, unsure what I’m asking for or if I’m even allowed.

The kiss breaks and his blue-green eyes study my face, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Zasha leans down and kisses me properly, a gentle kiss that is the polar opposite of what Fyodor gave me in the storeroom.

In one slow move, he shifts me underneath him and presses me into the fluffy pillows. We kiss, and his lips weave gently against mine, mirroring my own movement but from the opposite direction.

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