Page 25 of Inked Athena

“I’m pregnant.”

10

NOVA

My world narrows to Samuil’s face as the word hangs in the air between us.

Pregnant.

His silence says everything. I back up, but I only have a foot or two to retreat until I hit the bathroom counter. My eyes dart to the window, to the endless expanse of blue beyond the glass. I’ve never felt more trapped on this floating palace than I do right now.

“I could be wrong,” I whisper, but the words scatter in the air between us. Samuil hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. His face is a mask I can’t read, those ice-gray eyes fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it echoing. Every bitter comment he’s ever made about his mother floods my mind. Every cutting remark about his ex-wife’s betrayal plays on repeat. I watch his jaw clench, see the muscle jump beneath his skin, and wait for him to say something. Anything.

For God’s sake, give me anything but this silence.

“It’s probably just stress,” I continue, the words tumbling out faster and faster now, messier and messier, more and more desperate. “Or seasickness. The waves have been rougher today, and?—”

Samuil finally moves.

One step forward. His massive frame fills the doorway, blocking any escape route. Not that I have anywhere to go—we’re in the middle of the Mediterranean, for God’s sake.

The sudden movement makes me flinch, and I hate myself for it. I want to believe I know the man in front of me. This is Samuil.Samuil.

But the face he’s wearing belongs to a stranger.

Then a harsh sound tears from his throat—something between a laugh and a growl—and everything changes.

That sound reverberates off the marble walls as Samuil’s hand finds the doorframe, gripping it until his knuckles turn white. For a man who practically radiates power, he suddenly looks like he needs the support to stay standing.

I’ve never seen him so stripped bare, so unguarded. His face cycles through emotions faster than I can track them—fear bleeding into something darker, then transforming into what might be wonder. Might be joy. Might be terror. I’ve learned to read the microscopic shifts in his expression over our months together—or at least, I thought I did.

But right now? I’m lost.

When our eyes finally meet, the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. His irises are molten silver, fever-bright in a way that makes my breath catch. He takes another step forward as Russian spills from his lips, low and guttural. I catch my name among the flow of foreign syllables, but the rest is lost to me.

Still, I don’t need to understand the words to hear the storm behind them. To recognize that whatever he’s saying comes from somewhere deep and raw inside him.

My arms wrap around my middle without conscious thought. It’s instinct—protective—though I’m not sure if I’m trying to shield myself or this possibility growing inside me. Or maybe I’m trying to shield him from what this means. From how it could change everything.

I want to reach for him, but something in his expression keeps me frozen. The air between us feels electric, charged with potential energy. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for words I’ll understand, waiting to know if this news will break what we have or make it stronger.

His eyes drop to where my arms cross over my stomach, and suddenly, he’s moving with purpose toward my cosmetics bag on the counter.

He snaps into focus with predatory intensity as he spots the pink packet of pills among my toiletries. The transformation is instant—from raw vulnerability to pure, driven purpose. In three long strides, he’s beside me, his cologne wrapping around me as he reaches past to snatch up the birth control.

My breath catches as I realize what he’s about to do. “Samuil, wait?—”

But he’s already at the porthole, muscles bunching under his white dress shirt as he cranks it open.

Then he cocks back his arm and throws my birth control out of the window.

The pills catch the Mediterranean sunlight as they arc through the air, a flash of pink against endless blue before disappearing into the waves below.

The gesture is so absurdly dramatic—so perfectly, ridiculously Samuil—that a bubble of hysteria rises in my throat. Of course this is how he’d handle it. Not with words or discussion, but with an act of possession so over-the-top it borders on caveman.

When he turns back to me, his face has transformed once again. The earlier turmoil is gone, replaced by something fierce and proud that makes heat pool low in my belly. His eyes burn into mine as he stalks closer.

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