Page 79 of Inked Athena

And who’s responsible for tracking down Katerina?

A pint-sized dog walker and her busy-bodied best friend.

I dismiss Adam with a grateful nod, and he makes a beeline back to his office. Then I turn into the kitchen and hunt down some coffee.

As I pour myself a cup, watching the steam curl up like Scottish mist, I contemplate how to tell Nova that her scheme actually worked. That, while I was busy being an overprotective ass, she was quietly orchestrating Katerina’s downfall using nothing but Instagram and her understanding of human nature.

Letting her think she was right to take matters into her own hands seems like a dangerous precedent to set. The last thing I need is Nova thinking she can wade into Bratva business whenever she pleases.

Then again, I do have to make amends somehow. And maybe… maybe it’s time to admit that my way isn’t always the bestway. That, sometimes, the biggest victories come from the most unexpected directions.

Admitting I was wrong is a start.

The day passes in a blur of business calls and strategy sessions. But as the sun arcs through the sky, my thoughts keep circling back again and again to Nova and that intelligence report. By evening, the castle has settled into its usual twilight rhythm: the clip of sheep hooves in the distance, the whisper of wind through stone archways, the soft glow of lamps against darkening horizons.

I find her in our bedroom, curled up in the window seat where she spends most evenings now. The door frames her like a Renaissance painting, all soft curves and tangerine light. A book lies forgotten in her lap, but her gaze is fixed on the misty hills beyond the glass, one hand absently stroking her swollen belly.

I’ve seen that look on her face before—the tight pull of her eyebrows, the press of her full lips, the slight furrow between her brows that appeared the day I dragged her to Scotland.

She’s overthinking. Worrying. Probably about me, about us, about the future we’re building in this moss-covered fortress so far from everything she’s ever known.

I don’t want that for her—that weight on her heart. That burden.

But I’m man enough to recognize that it’s my fault it’s there in the first place.

I clear my throat to let her know I’m here, watching as she blinks away from whatever vision held her captive. The sight of me doesn’t exactly light up her face—though there’s something softer in her eyes than there was this morning—so it’s safe to assume I’m still the cause of those worry lines.

“I didn’t see you today,” I say.

She closes her book. “I was out in the woods, trying to recreate your naked rain dance for posterity. The villagers have already added it to the list of local legends.The Mad Russian Man and His Midnight Swim.”

I scowl. “There was no rain dance.”

“How would you know? You were drunk.”

“Not that drunk.”

She snorts. “You were drunk enough that you decided to take a casual stroll in the torrential rain. Drunk enough that you thought it was a good idea to take my boat out while the sky opened fire. Drunk enough that you nearly drowned in that ice-cold lake. Need I go on?”

I purse my lips. “Are you going to bring this up forever?”

“As long as I draw breath.”

I join her by the window. She’s still in the blue dress from this morning. The neckline dips low to reveal generous acres of cleavage.

Just like that, I’m hard again.

You’d think after my midnight swim with death, she’d want to revel in how alive I am, let me worship her body until we both forget yesterday’s terror. Or maybe that’s just how I would like tocelebrate continued survival—by drowning myself in her instead of scotch.

My woman clearly prefers holding grudges. Though the way she’s looking at me now, lips parted and eyes dark in the fading light, suggests she might be fighting the same battle I am.

“Nova…”

Her eyes flicker to mine, amber catching fire in the sunset. She’s holding her breath—I can see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands where they rest protectively over our child.

But as our eyes meet, her lower lip trembles with something more complicated than anger. I cross the room to her.

Unlike this morning, when I reach for her now, she doesn’t dance away. The castle’s shadows lengthen around us as I lift her out of the chair and pull her into my lap.

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