Page 109 of Inked Athena

“There’s your baby.” The technician’s voice is gentle as she points to a tiny shape on the screen. “Would you like to know the sex?”

Sam and I shake our heads in perfect sync. After everything that’s happened, this one surprise feels right. Sacred, almost.

His breath tickles my ear as he leans down. “Krasavitsa,” he whispers, and for the first time since I’ve known him, his voice cracks on the word.

It’s all he needs to say.

I tear my gaze from the screen to look at him. His gray eyes shine with unshed tears, and the sight undoes me completely. This man who calculates every move, who guards his emotions like nuclear codes, is crying over our baby.

“Everything looks perfect,” the technician continues, but her words fade into background noise. I’m lost in Sam’s expression, in the way his thumb taps a rhythm on my knuckles, in the realization that this is what unconditional love looks like.

We’re going to be parents. We’re going to give this child everything we never had—safety, stability, the knowledge that they’re cherished beyond measure.

The future stretches before us, bright with possibility.

For once, I’m not afraid.

Back at the castle, I’m floating, weightless with joy, as Sam’s security detail crowds around him to examine the ultrasound photos.

“Look at that nose—definitely yours, boss.” Viktor peers closer at the grainy image. “Poor kid.”

“Nah, that’s all Nova.” Dmitri jabs a thick finger at the picture. “See that stubborn little chin?”

“The head shape,” Myles cuts in. “I’d know that ugly melon anywhere. That’s your kid, Samuil. Apologies, Nova—your son or daughter will no doubt grow into it eventually, but the Litvinov skull is like a bowling ball on steroids.”

“You’re all wrong.” Sam tucks the photos away carefully, reverently. “This child will be perfect because he or she is ours.” His eyes meet mine, molten silver and fierce with pride. “Krasavitsa, we made this.”

Hope squeezes my hand as fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “Yeah,” I whisper. “We did.”

Mrs. Morris comes bursting from the kitchen to wrap me in a bone-crushing hug that smells of lavender and fresh-baked scones.

“Come, come!” She practically drags me toward the great hall. “We’ve been dying to show you.”

The hall has been transformed. Tiny white flowers spill from porcelain vases, and the afternoon sun streams through stainedglass windows, painting everything in ruby, turquoise, and honey-gold light.

But what stops me in my tracks is the wooden cradle beside the crackling hearth.

Mr. Morris, standing behind it, shifts anxiously from foot to foot. As soon as he sees me, he starts blabbering. “Solid base. Articulating joints to rock the wee ‘un. Oak’s traditional, see? For strength. Proper flex in the cold weather, too.” His callused hands hover over the perfectly smooth rails. “Been working on it since you arrived. The carvings, they’re protection runes—old Highland magic and such. Silly old nonsense, I’m sure, but… well, you never know. Can’t hurt. Anyway, enough rambling.”

I trace the intricate Celtic knots with trembling fingers. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

“And this!” Mrs. Morris thrusts an impossibly small package into my arms. “For the wee bairn’s first winter.”

Inside lies a cream-colored, hand-knitted sweater, so delicate it feels like holding a cloud. Tiny cables twist up the front like vines.

I gather them both in a hug and cry some more.

The sun has barely begun to set when Sam guides me up the winding stone steps to our tower room, his palm warm against my lower back. The ultrasound photos are still clutched in my other hand—I haven’t been able to let them go.

He pauses at the threshold, then scoops me into his arms. “Let me take care of you tonight, Nova.”

My heart stutters at the raw tenderness in his voice. This is a different Samuil than the one who I used to know. His touch is worshipful as he undresses me, each brush of his fingers igniting sparks under my skin.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, laying me back on our bed. His lips trail fire down my neck, across my collarbone. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

I arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he takes his time. Gone is the demanding passion that usually drives us both wild. Instead, his hands drift over my body like he’s memorizing every inch, paying special attention to my starting-to-swell stomach.

“Our miracle,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’re giving me everything I never dared want.”

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