Page 92 of Crown of Hate

A knock at the door interrupts my spiraling thought. Before I can bark out a response, Alexei saunters in, eyeing me carefully as he takes in my disheveled state. “You look pissed.”

“Careful, Alexei. I might just use you as a punching bag to blow off some steam,” I warn.

The motherfucker has the nerve to laugh. “Last time we got into a brawl, you won. Don’t get cocky, though. I’ve been working out.”

“Good. You’ll need all the strength you can get for your Irish tango.” I sigh. “I need a necklace with a tracker. Think you can make that happen?”

His brow raises. “For Alya?”

“No, as a token of our undying bromance,” I say sardonically with a roll of my eyes. “Of course it’s for Alya, you idiot.” I’m fucking stressed, and I don’t have the energy for witty banter until she’s back safe. I should have put a tracker in her phone.

Alexei winces. “I’ll get on the necklace ASAP.”

“Make it expensive. Diamonds. Forward the options to my email, and I’ll pick one she can’t resist.”

He nods. “About our trip tomorrow, Semyon is prepping the jet. Anything else you need?”

I shake my head. “That’ll do. Just… I need my wife back. Safe.”

The next three hours are pure torture. I’m glued to my phone, willing it to ring, to chime, to give me any sign that Alya’s okay. But the silence stretches on, mocking me.

My worry’s morphing into full-blown panic with each passing second, and I’ll be damned if I sit here twiddling my thumbs for another moment.

Snatching my phone from the table, I stand up and make my way downstairs. I’m halfway across the foyer when the front door swings open.

My heart stops. Then restarts with a vengeance.

Alya walks in, and I’m ready to unleash hell, but it all melts away when her cloudy eyes meet mine.

This isn’t the same bubbly woman who left home this morning. She looks… broken. Scared.

I’m at her side in an instant, pulling her close. “What happened? Are you okay?”

She lowers her gaze to the ground. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. You don’t look fine.” I’ve only seen that look on her face once before—when she found out Akim was her biological father. Something’s very wrong, I can feel it. But I can’t help her if she won’t let me in. “Talk to me, Alya. What’s going on?”

Grace’s voice drifts from the kitchen, barking orders at the other housekeepers. Alya flinches slightly.

“Can we talk in our bedroom?” Alya asks quietly.

“Sure.”

I guide her upstairs, my hand on the small of her back, a silent promise of support as my mind races through all the worst-case scenarios. Is she sick? Is it something serious? A knot tightens in my stomach, and I can barely keep my hand steady on her back.

She goes straight to the bed and perches on the edge of it, looking small and vulnerable. I want to wrap her in my arms, but I force myself to give her space. She takes a deep breath, then begins to speak. “I went to the hospital today. I’ve been feeling… off lately.”

Air stalls in my lungs. I’ve noticed her lack of appetite, even had Grace whip up her favorites. Nothing helped. “Are you sick?”

She shakes her head. “I’m pregnant.”

My eyes widen, and my jaw falls open. I feel something in my chest, a burst of happiness building at the speed of a hurricane. I don’t think I heard her right. I need to be sure. “You’re… what?”

“Pregnant.” She straightens up. “Look, Mikhail. I know this probably isn’t what you wanted. It might feel too soon, but I want this baby, and I’m willing to raise the child on my own if I have to. You don’t need to worry about us becoming a burden on you?—”

“I’m going to be a father?” I cut her off, my voice barely a whisper. My heart is doing a drum solo against my ribs, and I feel like I might spontaneously combust from sheer joy.

She stops mid-sentence and studies my face like she’s trying to decode a cipher. “Yes. I’m five weeks along already.”

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