Page 13 of Nine Months to Love
“Do you remember when I found you? That night outside the fight club in Vladivostok. It was January, cold as hell, snowing so hard you could barely see your own hand in front of your face.”
Her jaw tightens. “Don’t go there.”
“You were naked except for someone’s coat. Not even your coat. Shivering so badly your teeth were chattering, blood on your thighs, death circling you just waiting to see if you’d drop.”
“Stop.”
“Three men in the back room, you said. Fighters who lost their matches and decided to take it out on you.” I move closer, watching her shoulders tense, her eyes grow hooded, her hands clench up on the bedsheets. “You could barely string half a sentence together.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want you to remember who I was to you before all this. Who I still am, despite everything.”
She laughs, bitter and sharp. “You were never anything to me but a means to an end.”
I sit in the chair across from her. Little by little, I’m eating away at the space between us, both literal and metaphorical. “You begged me to let you stay. Not just that night—for weeks after. You said you’d be useful, that you’d earn your keep. You said?—”
“I said whatever I needed to survive,” she interrupts with an acid scowl.
“You said you felt safe with me,” I remind her softly. I tilt my head and give her the gentlest look I can. “When was the last time you felt safe, Mikayla?”
She looks away, but not before I catch the flame of something raw in her eyes. “Safety is an illusion.”
“Not with me. Never, ever with me. Eight years, Mikayla. You remember what I’ve done for you, don’t you? For eight years, I kept you safe, gave you purpose, gave you power. You ran my communications, knew my secrets, had my complete trust.”
“Trust?” She spits that out with a harsh cackle. “You trust no one.”
I shake my head. “I trustedyou. More than Taras sometimes. More than anyone except?—”
“Except Babushka. I know. I was never family to you, Stefan. Just a useful tool.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. A little more distance evaporating. “You were both. That’s why this hurts.”
“Don’t pretend you’re hurt. You’re just angry your perfect plan got disrupted.”
I stand, pacing now. “You think any of this was planned? Meeting Olivia, the pregnancy, these feelings I can’t—” I stop myself, running a hand through my hair. “What happened to us, Mikayla? You used to trust me.”
“I never trusted anyone. Least of all you.”
“Yes, you did. I think you still do. You’re just angry with me right now.”
She looks up sharply. “Why would I be angry with you?”
I meet her gaze directly. “Because I can’t love you the way you want me to. But that doesn’t mean I don’thavelove for you.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I? You’re a professional liar. You should know the difference, Mikayla.”
Her mask cracks. She bites at her lip for just a second before she realizes just how glaring of a tell it is and she schools her face neutral again. “You just want her back.”
“Yes, I do, but not for the reasons you think.” I move back to the window and gaze out. “She’s pregnant with my baby. That’s the only reason I want her back. I don’t care about her, but I do care about that child. I care about my heir.”
The lie tastes like shit, but I sell it because I have no other choice. Mikayla watches me, searching for the giveaway she knows must be there. But I learned to lie from the best—my mother—and right now, I need Mikayla to believe this fiction more than I’ve ever needed anyone to believe anything.
“An heir,” she repeats slowly. “That’s all?”
“What else would there be? You know me, Mikayla. You know what matters to me. Legacy. Power. Continuation of the bloodline. Olivia is...” I pause, as if searching for words. “She’s a means to an end. A particularly complicated means, but nothing more.”
