Page 34 of Inked Athena

“Apologies, ma’am,” he says, straddling the line between cold and polite. “We’re in the middle of an important meeting.”

“But Samuil?—”

“Mr. Litvinov told me to inform you that we’ll be another hour at least.”

Then he shuts the door in my face. Not even a proper slam—just a quiet, dismissive click.

I stomp back to our suite, already drafting the long, angry rant I plan to deliver the moment Sam comes to find me.

He said he missed my fighting spirit. Well, I’m about to let him have it. I’ll tell him exactly what I think about being treated like property. About being kept in the dark while carrying his child. About how if he wants this relationship to work, he needs to see me as a partner, not a possession. About how we fuckingtalkedabout this, all of it, ad fucking nauseam, and yet the second that pregnancy test showed up with two pink lines, it all went out the damn porthole window along with my birth control.

But all that will have to come later. In the meantime, I can only go down to the suite and wait for him on our bed.

And wait.

And wait.

The next thing I know, I’m blinking my eyes open to a dark room and the groggy realization that everything is gone.

My luggage, the clothes I had piled on the chair, Samuil’s shoes—gone, gone, gone. All of it.

I sit up, the world spinning for a second before I can focus on the broad shape of Samuil standing at the end of the bed, zipping a suitcase.

He glances up at me. “There’s a snack by the bed. You should eat.”

Sure enough, a plate of ginger cookies sits on my nightstand—the one piece of furniture he hasn’t cleared. The gesture should be sweet. Instead, it feels patronizing.

“We’re leaving now?” I had a whole speech planned. There were accompanying hand gestures and thoughtful pauses and several brutal, sizzling turns of phrase.

Samuil nods. “I’m glad you woke up on your own. I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”

I snort. “As if that would’ve stopped you.”

Apparently, he doesn’t have time for snark, because he heaves the suitcase off the end of the bed and wheels it towards the doors. “I’ve left some comfortable travel clothes out for you. We leave in ten.”

By the time I glance to my sweats and my favorite sweatshirt covered in embroidered dog paws, Sam is gone.

Grudgingly, I throw on the clothes—annoyed that he knows me well enough to pack an unlined sports bra and fuzzy socks—and then haul my ass upstairs, where the transport boat is already being loaded and readied to launch.

Samuil tosses a duffel bag down into the craft as I stop behind him.

“You gonna fling me down there, too?” I hold my arms out as if I’m ready. “I’m luggage, after all. Something you pack up and move around as you seem fit.”

He turns to me, mouth quirked in an amused smile.

That throws me for a loop, which I don’t appreciate. He’s supposed to match my anger. He’s supposed to snap back, if only so I can justify slapping him.

“You think this is funny?” I demand.

“Well—” He lays a hand over my belly. “—you are carrying precious cargo. The suitcase analogy isn’t so far off.”

My eyes go wide. “If you think I’m just some vessel for you and?—”

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I think I might need to handcuff you to my wrist like a briefcase full of cash, like the highly valuable package you are.”

“I dare you to handcuff me,” I snarl. “I fucking dare you.”

His eyes dance with amusement and moonlight. “Don’t tempt me,krasavitsa.”

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