Page 48 of Inked Athena

Myles nods, his jaw squaring. “Then I have one more suggestion. After that, I’ll shut my mouth.”

“I doubt that. But go ahead.”

“Tell Nova,” he says simply. “Tell her everything. Let her in.”

The vein in my forehead throbs at the mere idea. “This isn’t her burden to bear, Myles. She’s already got enough on her plate, with worrying about her grandmother and Hope and our baby. I won’t add to it.” I drop into my chair, spreading my hands on the mahogany desk. “I can be her punching bag. I can take her anger if it means keeping her safe from how high the stakes really are.”

“You’re a good man, Samuil.” Myles claps me on the back. His resignation is proof that I answered exactly the way he expected. “And I’m proud to be your second, your brother-in-arms.” He pauses at the door. “I just hope this decision doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.”

“Yeah,” I whisper to myself long after he’s retreated out of my office and left me to resume my pastime of staring at the raindrops racing down the window glass. “That makes two of us.”

My phone lights up with another message. This time from Nova.

I’m sorry about the vase. And your face. Come home soon.

Three simple lines that make my chest constrict. This woman who throws pottery at my head one day and misses me the next. Who fights me tooth and nail about staying safe, then apologizes for caring too much. Who’s carrying my child and still doesn’t realize she already owns every piece of me worth having.

I type back:Nothing to apologize for,zaychik. I’ll be home soon. Just a few more days.

18

NOVA

The turret room feels smaller every day Samuil’s gone. I’ve taken to pacing its circular confines like some tragic heroine in a gothic novel, scanning the winding road below for any sign of his return.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks of “just a few more days,zaychik.”

Today, I’m changing venues. I’ll pace in the library instead of the turret. But I’m barely halfway around the room before I lose all desire to keep moving and collapse into a self-loathing heap on the window seat.

I press my forehead against the cold stone, letting out a breath that fogs the glass pane. The castle that felt like a fairytale now feels like a prison, no matter how lovely the grounds or how kind the staff. Even the Scottish rain seems to mock me, drumming an endless rhythm that sounds suspiciously like “alone, alone, alone.”

Notfullyalone, though. My hand drifts to my growing belly. At least someone’s keeping me company.

“Miss Nova?” Mrs. Morris’s voice echoes from the entrance. “There’s something in the barn you might want to see.”

I consider ignoring her. The library’s perfectly good for moping, and I’ve gotten rather skilled at it lately. But Mrs. Morris has become more than just the housekeeper—she’s the closest thing to a mother figure I’ve ever had. If she thinks something’s worth dragging my pregnant ass out into the rain for, it probably is.

“Coming,” I call back, wrapping my sweater tighter around my growing belly.

The walk to the barn takes longer these days. Not just because I’m getting bigger, but because every path holds memories.

The garden where Samuil first kissed me in the rain. The loch where we went midnight swimming. The meadow where he promised me forever, right before rushing off to London and leaving me here alone.

I’m so lost in memories that I almost miss the sounds coming from the barn—high-pitched yips and excited barks that definitely aren’t the usual farm noises. My steps quicken despite myself.

I push open the heavy wooden door—and freeze.

Four black and white puppies tumble over each other in a makeshift pen, their stubby tails wagging furiously as they spot me. A weathered farmer I recognize as Duncan from the neighboring property stands nearby with an adult border collie at his heel.

“Thought ye might want to meet the new additions,” Duncan says with a knowing smile. “Their mam passed last week, poorthings. They’ll need someone with a gentle touch to help raise them up proper.”

The smallest pup breaks away from the pack and waddles toward me, front paw slightly turned in, making him trip over his own feet. My heart melts instantly.

“Hello there, little one,” I whisper, kneeling carefully to let him sniff my hand. His wet nose tickles my palm before he gives it a tentative lick.

His siblings, noticing his bravery, scramble over to join in the investigation. Soon, I’m surrounded by wiggling bodies and puppy breath.

Duncan chuckles. “They seem to know a good soul when they meet one.”

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