Page 60 of Inked Athena

“You won’t be.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. I do.” I cover his hand with mine. “You show it every time you touch me. Every time you look at me like I matter more than revenge.”

His eyes darken. “You do matter more. That’s what terrifies me.” He presses his lips to my temple, breath warm against my skin. “My father taught me that love makes you weak. Makes you vulnerable. But when I think about our baby—about you carrying my child—I’ve never felt stronger.”

Something breaks loose in my chest, a shard of ice I didn’t know I was carrying. “So you’re not disappointed? That it happened so fast?”

“Krasavitsa.” He cups my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’ve given me something I never dared to want. How could I be disappointed?”

I lean into his touch, memorizing this rare moment of total honesty between us. Tomorrow, he might rebuild his walls, but tonight—tonight, he’s mine.

Or at least, he was. Then his phone vibrates on the nightstand and a few of those bricks go right back in place between us.

“Your father?” I ask, already knowing the answer from the way his jaw tightens.

“He’s requesting my presence in London. Again.” Sam reaches for the phone but doesn’t check the message. Instead, he rubs the screen’s edge with his thumb, lost in thought.

“Are you going to listen?”

“Fuck no. I saw enough of him last week.”

I study the harsh lines of his profile in the moonlight. “You said he seemed… different.”

“Weaker,” he agrees. “He’s never backed down before. Not from anything.”

“Maybe he’s finally realizing what he could lose.”

Sam’s laugh is nearly lifeless. “He isn’t capable of that. If he’s showing weakness, it’s because he wants me to lower my guard.”

“Or maybe he’s sick.” The thought springs unbidden to my lips. “You said he looked frail.”

“The great Leonid? Mortal?” Sam’s fingers find my hair, twisting a strand around his knuckle. “That would require him to be human first.”

“Everyone’s human, Sam. Even mob bosses.”

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I glimpse the little boy who grew up desperately seeking his father’s approval. “Not him. Trust me,zaychik. If death comes for my father, he’ll negotiate his way out of that, too.”

“You make him seem like a god.”

“I used to think he was,” Sam admits. “You should have seen him back then.” A ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Six and a half feet of tyranny. He’d stride into a room and everyone would stop breathing.”

“Like father, like son?”

“In some ways, perhaps.” His jaw tightens. “Leonid was... magnetic. He’d take Ilya and me hunting in Siberia, tracking bears through snow so deep it swallowed our legs. Or we’d spend weekends on Lake Michigan, learning to sail his racing yacht. He made everything look effortless.”

The pride in Sam’s voice carries an edge of old pain. “You wanted to be just like him,” I guess.

He nods somberly. “Every boy does. Even when their father pits them against their brother in endless competitions.” His fingers find my belly again, protective. “I lived for the moments he’d look at me with approval. The times he’d say, ‘Molodets’ after I scored a goal or landed a marlin. For years, I thought if I could just be stronger, faster, smarter than Ilya, he’d?—”

Sam cuts himself off, throat working.

I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my touch. “Our child will never have to compete for your love,” I whisper fiercely.

His eyes meet mine, dark with promise. “Never.”

Sam’s fingertips ghost across my stomach in feather-light patterns, as if he’s trying to communicate with our child through touch alone. The tenderness in his caress makes my throat tight.

---