Page 33 of Inked Athena

Nothing about that sentence puts me at ease. Not one single word of it. Theoretically, it should—if Ilya or the Andropovs were here, Samuil wouldn’t be “greeting” anyone. He’d be putting bullets in skulls.

But my throat closes anyway. The walls of our suite—previously a sanctuary of silk and sunlight—press in. Even the gentle rock of waves feels threatening now.

I sink onto the bed’s edge, mechanically lifting a cookie to my mouth. If death is coming, at least I’ll face it with something in my stomach. The thought forces a hysterical giggle from my throat.

The sight and sound of the chopper has awakened something in me. A fear that I didn’t even realize I’ve suppressed. It’s similar to the feeling I had in the woods just before I fell down that ravine.

It’s the helplessness of being hunted.

Except this time, the stakes are so much higher.

The door crashes open. Samuil fills the frame, all six-foot-four of lethal grace wrapped in a tailored suit. His jaw is granite, eyes winter-sharp. This isn’t my Samuil—the man who kisses my belly each morning and fights me about eating before standing.

This is thepakhan, the man who makes other men tremble.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

He eyes the plate in my hand. “Good. You’re eating.”

“Samuil,” I breathe, “what’s happening?”

“It’s nothing.”

Maybe to him. But to me, a helicopter just landed on the superyacht we’ve been living on. That feels distinctly likesomething.

“‘Nothing’?” I throw the cookie across the room. It shatters against the wall, sending crumbs raining onto the plush carpet. “A helicopter just landed on our yacht. That’s notnothing,Sam.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “A couple of my men came aboard to escort us to the next port.”

“What’s wrong with this port?”

“Nothing.” But the way he passes his hand over his nape is the equivalent of him screaming like Chicken Little. “It’s just time for a change in scenery.”

I have no right to be disappointed. Samuil told me this was someone else’s yacht. I knew it was temporary. But watching him dismiss me—treat me like some docile pet to be moved at his convenience, the way heusedto treat me, the way we agreed he never would again… It ignites something primal in my chest.

“Where are we going?” I stand, refusing to let him tower over me.

“You’ll find out when we get there.” He turns to leave like that’s the end of it.

I scramble after him, pregnancy-clumsy but determined. “Are you serious? You’re not going to tell me?”

“The men here to escort us don’t even know where we’re going, Nova.”

“The men here to escort us aren’t your—” A title for exactly what I am to him slips between my fingers, so I fumble for something else. “—aren’t having your baby. I think I should have a higher clearance.”

His eyes drop to my stomach, that familiar possessive heat flooding his gaze. For a moment, I think he’ll crack. Tell me something. Anything. But as he turns and strides out of the door, he leaves behind only a single word.

“Later.”

“Later” turns into hours. Hours of pacing outside of his office like a circus tiger while he conducts his “meeting.” Hours of being dismissed by stone-faced Bratva men with guns when I try to get answers.

I’m left to keep pacing and weighing the pros and cons of sayingfuck itand barging through the door.

Pro: My righteous indignation would love nothing more than a grand entrance.

Con: The guns in that room likely outnumber humans three to one. If I value my own life and my child’s, I probably shouldn’t surprise anyone armed.

When I finally cave to the insult that is knocking, I raise my fist—only for the door to open and a surly-faced Russian man in a gray suit to block my path.

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