Page 94 of Imperfect Desires

It’s past midnight, yet time feels like something meant for other people. Not for me.

I sit in the kitchen of the Bratva safehouse, elbows resting on the table, a full mug of black coffee cooling between my palms. I haven’t touched it and don’t plan to. The bitter scent curls into the air, sharp enough to sting, but nothing can cut through the noise in my head.

The rest of the house is still- silent. But my mind is loud and restless. It keeps drifting back to that room, that monitor, that sound.

Whoosh-whoosh… whoosh-whoosh.

The heartbeat: our baby’s heartbeat.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound. It struck me like a bullet and settled in my chest like a second heart. I haven’t been able to shake it—and the truth is, I don’t want to. Not now. Not after what almost happened. Not after what I almost threw away.

Alina is finally asleep down the hall. I sat by her side for hours, watching her breathe like if I blinked, she’d disappear. She still flinches in her sleep. Still curls her hand over her stomach like she’s protecting something sacred. I haven’t earned the right to rest beside her yet, but I will.

The door creaks open behind me. My hand shifts instinctively toward the blade sheathed under my jacket, but I don’t draw it. I recognize that gait—that quietness.

Zasha enters the room like smoke, gives me a nod, and leans against the counter without saying a word. That’s his way: solid, unshakable. If I had died yesterday, he would be the one to carry out the retribution- without fanfare and without hesitation.

He doesn’t ask how I’m doing because he knows. As we sit in comfortable silence, the door opens again, and Viktor walks in like a storm rolling in.

He walks in with the same authority he’s always possessed—quiet, deadly, and absolute. He’s not wearing a suit tonight. Just a black shirt, sleeves rolled, and an unreadable expression.

The tension in my back tightens. My stomach coils, not from fear, but from something worse.

Guilt.

I haven’t spoken to him. Not really. Not since before I left.

And now? I’m back, and his sister is carrying my child.

I look up.

He meets my gaze without flinching. There’s no warmth in his eyes, just steel. He grabs a glass, fills it at the tap, and downs half. The silence stretches, unforgiving.

He sets the glass down slowly. Purposefully. Then looks at me.

“We have unfinished business,” he says.

I nod once.

We do.

For a moment, none of us speak.

The air in the kitchen is thick—soaked with everything unsaid. Zasha leans against the counter, arms folded, watching like a man waiting for a bomb to go off. And I sit there, spine straight, heart hammering in a chest that’s trained to hide the impact.

But Viktor?

He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t blink. He just looks at me. Like he’s weighing the worth of my life.

And maybe… he is.

I hold his stare. I won’t look away. Whatever comes next—I’ve earned it.

Then he tilts his head, jaw flexing once.

“You know you’re a fucking asshole, right?”

The words hit almost harder than the punch that follows.

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