I escort Rowan inside, then retreat downstairs. I don’t want to set foot in her personal space. Not yet.
Instead, I stand on the corner and watch until the light in her third-floor window flickers on before turning to face Arkady. He’s leaning against the car, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyebrows raised in silent question.
“She’s pregnant,” I say without preamble.
Arkady’s match freezes halfway to his cigarette. “Come again?”
“Pregnant. With my child.”
He slowly lowers the match, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looks suspiciously close to amusement. “Well, fuck me sideways with a socket wrench. You certainly know how to complicate things, brother.”
I pace along the sidewalk. Energy is thrumming through my veins, sparkling and crackling in every tendon, every cell.
A baby.
Fucking hell.
“This changes everything,” I mutter, more to myself than to Arkady.
He snorts. “No shit. What about your pretty little arrangement with Anastasia?”
I stop pacing, turning to face him. “I can’t think about that yet. This comes first. She does.”
He just looks at me, saying nothing, that knowing half-smirk playing at his lips.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Don’t what? Don’t point out that you’re actually fucking happy about this? That you’ve been looking for an excuse to choose her all along?”
I turn away. Because he’s right. As soon as Rowan said those words—“I’m pregnant”—something locked into place inside me.
Relief. Purpose. Maybe even a fucked-up version of joy.
As much joy as a dark, broken son of a bitch like me is capable of feeling, anyway.
“The inheritance clause requires marriage and an heir,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “This solves half the equation. The more important half.”
Arkady’s eyebrows shoot up. “Don’t tell me you’re really gonna—”
“Yes, I am.”
“Your father will lose his mind.”
“My father can adapt or he can fuck off,” I reply. “I’m done playing by his rules.”
Arkady whistles low. “Never thought I’d see the day.” He studies me for a moment. “You know, if this was just about the inheritance, you could still marry Anastasia and keep Rowan as your—”
“That’s not an option.”
“Why not?” he insists. “Seems like the neat solution. Your father gets his alliance marriage; you get your heir; everybody wins.”
“Everybody except Rowan.”
He tilts his head. “Since when do you care about what’s best for someone else?”
I don’t have an answer for that—at least, not one I’m ready to say out loud.
I don’t know when it happened—when Rowan St. Clair became more than just a convenient fuck or a potential solution to my inheritance problem. I don’t know when her happiness started to matter to me more than my own carefully constructed plans.
I just know that it does.
“The security detail needs an upgrade,” I say, changing the subject. “Two men isn’t enough. I want four, rotating in shifts. And I want them experienced—no rookies.”
“Already on it.” Arkady taps at his phone. “Dimitri and Sasha are taking first watch. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Good.” I glance around the street, scanning for threats. “And the apartment across the street—lease it. I want our own men there with eyes on her building at all times.”
Arkady makes a note. “Consider it done. And what about the FBI? They’re not going to just go away, you know.”
“Let me worry about the FBI.”
“They questioned her for three hours, Vince. She might have told them things—”
“She didn’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
I think of Rowan hiding my laptop in her shirt. “Because I know her. She protected me.”
Arkady studies me for a long moment. “I’ll be damned. You really do trust her.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”
“Well, that’s a first.”
I ignore the implication. “What about Daniil? Any word from him?”
“Not yet.” He takes a long, thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “But if Anastasia isn’t going to be Mrs. Akopov anymore, does it matter?”
“It matters because we need the Petrovs contained. With or without the marriage alliance.”
Arkady nods, understanding. “I’ll keep tabs on him until he decides how he wants to play his cards.”
My phone dings with an update text from one of my men stationed at the hospital: Mrs. St. Clair is stable. Treatment proceeding as scheduled. No visitors besides medical staff.
I exhale slowly. At least that’s one thing going right. Rowan’s mother is still getting the care she needs.
“So what’s the plan now?” Arkady asks. “Besides the obvious.”
I run a hand through my hair and think. “First, I need to secure Rowan and the baby. That means better housing, round-the-clock security, the best medical care.”
“And after that?”
“After that, I deal with my father.”
Arkady winces. “That’s not going to be pretty.”
“No,” I agree. “It won’t.”
He hesitates, then asks the question I know he’s been holding back. “Does she want this, Vince? Marriage? A life with you? Has she even agreed to keep the baby?”
“She’ll come around.” I say it with more confidence than I feel.
Arkady gives me a skeptical look. “Women aren’t business deals, brother. You can’t just decide for them.”
“I’m not deciding for her—I’m giving her what she needs.”
“And if what she needs isn’t you?”
I refuse to consider that possibility. “She got pregnant with my baby,” I say tightly. “She hid my laptop from the FBI. She’s protected me at every turn.”
“Maybe that means she cares,” Arkady concedes. “Or maybe she’s just a decent person caught in an indecent situation.”
I check my watch, impatient with this line of conversation and more than ready to talk about fucking anything else. “Dimitri and Sasha should be here by now.”
Right on cue, a black SUV with tinted windows pulls up, and two of my most trusted men step out. I brief them quickly on their duties—watch the building, report any suspicious activity, keep Rowan safe at all costs.
They take their positions without question.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell Arkady, already moving toward the building’s entrance.
“Vince,” he calls after me. I pause, looking back. “Just… remember she’s not one of us. She didn’t grow up in this world. Don’t expect her to adapt overnight.”
His concern surprises me. “Since when do you care about Rowan’s feelings?”
“I don’t,” he says bluntly. “I care about yours. And I’ve never seen you like this over a woman before.”
I don’t respond to that. Can’t respond to it.
Because he’s right, and we both know it.
Instead, I just nod once and continue into the building. The elevator is out of order—of fucking course it is—so I take the stairs two at a time up to the third floor.
Standing outside Rowan’s door, I take a moment to compose myself. To arrange my thoughts into something coherent. Preferably something that won’t send her running for the hills.
Because Arkady’s right about that much: Rowan isn’t from my world. She didn’t grow up with arrangements and alliances and obligations.
She comes from a world of choice. Of feelings.
And if I’m being honest with myself—really fucking honest—this isn’t just about securing my inheritance or producing an heir to the Akopov empire.
This is about her. She makes me feel… makes my life feel… possible. Open in ways I never dreamed I’d be allowed to hope for. The life growing inside her represents something I never thought I’d have: a family that’s mine. Truly mine. Not because of duty or obligation, but because of…
I stop myself before I can complete the thought. Some words are too dangerous to even think.
I raise my hand and knock on her door, already knowing exactly what I’m going to do next.
For the first time in my life, what I want and what I need are finally the same thing.
And they both look like Rowan St. Clair.
