Page 36 of Knocked Up By the Russian

"Mishka," Ivan muttered a curse as he dropped the items onto the coffee table. Some of the food escaped the lid, but he barely noticed as he rushed over to her. "Amy, tell me what you need. Please, Mishka. I'll make it better. I promise."

She only cried harder as he tried to comfort her, pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her. Her fingersreached for his shirt, crumpling the expensive fabric like she crumpled his heart. The words she mumbled weren't making any sense, and his fingers felt too large and clumsy when he tried to wipe the tears off her cheeks.

"Shit! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll make it better. Just tell me what I can do to make it better."

He couldn't say he would've rather taken her with, but now that the threats were going as far as the apartment desk—could he really say she had to stay in the apartment anymore? He should've dropped her off at Zia's... or her Mom's. Hell, he shouldn't have left her alone.

"I'm sorry, Mishka." He held her close, unsure what to do. Normally, romancing a girl didn’t end up with her in tears on his lap. Not unless they were from how well he was pleasuring her. So, for the first time in his life, he just didn’t know what to do.

Amy only sobbed harder. "I—Ivan."

His name on her lips left ice in his veins.

"Tell me what you need," he encouraged, hating the part he'd played in her sadness. "Anything, Mishka. Please."

God, if his brothers could see him now. Then again, he doubted any of them had hurt their wives this badly before. He wasn't an idiot. He knew how much Amy hated when he made decisions for her. But he still went and did it over and over again, encouraged by some stupid part of him that thought he'd be able to make things better. And in doing so, maybe she'd look for him next time she had a problem.

Thinking of his brothers, Ivan wondered vaguely if they'd ever had to deal with their wives' tears. What was he supposed to do in a situation like this? Taking his gun out and shooting at theproblem wasn't possible if the problem was him—or a decision he'd made.

His upbringing only made things worse. Weaknesses were exploited in the Bratva; he and his brothers had been forced to learn that from a young age.

With his arms wrapped around her, Ivan buried his face in Amy's hair. Her silence felt better than this. "I'm sorry, Mishka."

"S—stop saying you're sorry," she wailed, her little fists beating at his chest.

"Tell me what to do then?" he asked, hoping she'd bruise him. A little pain would do wonders in soothing the ache in his soul.

"Why the hell did you bring flowers?" she asked, finally pulling away. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were bloodshot as she met his. "Why were you checking up on my mom? She's fine... she's raised five kids, she can handle anything. You know that, so why do you care about how she's doing during a move? It's just a move."

Ivan frowned, unsure. "It's her first move in over twenty years. I wanted to make sure it was going alright."

"How do you even know that?" she shouted brokenly as she got up from his lap and started to pace the living room floor.

I asked...He kept quiet, watching her with concern. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she stopped to wipe them away, her green eyes alight with something akin to anger. But he'd seen her angry enough times to know that this wasn't it.

"Amy—" he started to question, but she shook her head.

"No. Don't Amy me now," she muttered with a harsh laugh, palms cradling her face. "God, how could I miss it?"

"Miss what?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair.

"Everything!" she wailed, turning to face him. "What are we doing, Ivan?"

He rose from the couch, intent on soothing her even if he didn't know how. "I was apologizing," he muttered, still confused as he wrapped his arms around her. She squirmed in his grip, scowling up at him as a fresh wave of tears poured down her cheeks.

His heart clenched tight, and he dropped his forehead to hers. "Tell me what's wrong, Amy."

"This," she said in a wobbly voice as her fingers ran through his hair.

"What?" His brow furrowed as he wondered what she meant. "I don't understand. What is it? Tell me how to make it better, Mishka, and I will."

Amy let out an irritable growl. "Stop that! Stop trying to make me feel better—just... fucking stop trying to control everything."

Then her lips met his, and his questions faded to the background. Her kiss was hesitant, and he could feel her doubt. He exhaled, cradling her face. If kissing her would make her feel better, he wasn't about to complain. Dropping his fingers to her hips, Ivan crushed her to his chest as he deepened their kiss. Need... He needed her. This.

But it wasn't right. There were still questions running through his mind, and he pulled away, intent on finding the answers.

"Amy?" he questioned, fingers caressing her cheeks. "Tell me what's going on."

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