Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

My world narrows to Samuil’s face as the word hangs in the air between us.

Pregnant.

His silence says everything. I back up, but I only have a foot or two to retreat until I hit the bathroom counter. My eyes dart to the window, to the endless expanse of blue beyond the glass. I’ve never felt more trapped on this floating palace than I do right now.

“I could be wrong,” I whisper, but the words scatter in the air between us. Samuil hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. His face is a mask I can’t read, those ice-gray eyes fixed on some point beyond my shoulder.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he must hear it echoing. Every bitter comment he’s ever made about his mother floods my mind. Every cutting remark about his ex-wife’s betrayal plays on repeat. I watch his jaw clench, see the muscle jump beneath his skin, and wait for him to say something. Anything.

For God’s sake, give me anything but this silence.

“It’s probably just stress,” I continue, the words tumbling out faster and faster now, messier and messier, more and more desperate. “Or seasickness. The waves have been rougher today, and⁠—”

Samuil finally moves.

One step forward. His massive frame fills the doorway, blocking any escape route. Not that I have anywhere to go—we’re in the middle of the Mediterranean, for God’s sake.

The sudden movement makes me flinch, and I hate myself for it. I want to believe I know the man in front of me. This is Samuil. Samuil.

But the face he’s wearing belongs to a stranger.

Then a harsh sound tears from his throat—something between a laugh and a growl—and everything changes.

That sound reverberates off the marble walls as Samuil’s hand finds the doorframe, gripping it until his knuckles turn white. For a man who practically radiates power, he suddenly looks like he needs the support to stay standing.

I’ve never seen him so stripped bare, so unguarded. His face cycles through emotions faster than I can track them—fear bleeding into something darker, then transforming into what might be wonder. Might be joy. Might be terror. I’ve learned to read the microscopic shifts in his expression over our months together—or at least, I thought I did.

But right now? I’m lost.

When our eyes finally meet, the intensity in his gaze pins me in place. His irises are molten silver, fever-bright in a way that makes my breath catch. He takes another step forward as Russian spills from his lips, low and guttural. I catch my name among the flow of foreign syllables, but the rest is lost to me.

Still, I don’t need to understand the words to hear the storm behind them. To recognize that whatever he’s saying comes from somewhere deep and raw inside him.

My arms wrap around my middle without conscious thought. It’s instinct—protective—though I’m not sure if I’m trying to shield myself or this possibility growing inside me. Or maybe I’m trying to shield him from what this means. From how it could change everything.

I want to reach for him, but something in his expression keeps me frozen. The air between us feels electric, charged with potential energy. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for words I’ll understand, waiting to know if this news will break what we have or make it stronger.

His eyes drop to where my arms cross over my stomach, and suddenly, he’s moving with purpose toward my cosmetics bag on the counter.

He snaps into focus with predatory intensity as he spots the pink packet of pills among my toiletries. The transformation is instant—from raw vulnerability to pure, driven purpose. In three long strides, he’s beside me, his cologne wrapping around me as he reaches past to snatch up the birth control.

My breath catches as I realize what he’s about to do. “Samuil, wait⁠—”

But he’s already at the porthole, muscles bunching under his white dress shirt as he cranks it open.

Then he cocks back his arm and throws my birth control out of the window.

The pills catch the Mediterranean sunlight as they arc through the air, a flash of pink against endless blue before disappearing into the waves below.

The gesture is so absurdly dramatic—so perfectly, ridiculously Samuil—that a bubble of hysteria rises in my throat. Of course this is how he’d handle it. Not with words or discussion, but with an act of possession so over-the-top it borders on caveman.

When he turns back to me, his face has transformed once again. The earlier turmoil is gone, replaced by something fierce and proud that makes heat pool low in my belly. His eyes burn into mine as he stalks closer.

“There,” he says, voice rough and deep. “One less thing to stress about. You don’t have to worry about getting pregnant anymore.” His hand reaches for my stomach but stops just shy of touching. “Because if you’re not already, you soon will be.”

Jaw, meet floor.

I should be outraged. Should be furious at his high-handedness, his assumption of control over my body. Instead, I find myself fighting back a smile at the barely concealed hunger in his expression. At the way his fingers tremble slightly in the space between us, betraying that this display of dominance masks something much more vulnerable.

My lips part to challenge him, because someone needs to point out how ridiculous this all is.

“Are you seriously telling me,” I say, finding my voice, “that you just chucked my birth control into the ocean, then promised to knock me up?”

His lips curve into something that’s not quite his usual smirk. It’s softer somehow. Teasing. Dangerous. “Would you rather I left it to chance?” His voice drops lower, intimate. “Left us wondering, waiting?”

He moves closer, backing me against the counter again.

“Tell me you don’t want this, too.” His hand hovers near my belly, not quite touching. “Tell me you don’t want it every fucking bit as bad as I do.”

My hand finds his where it hovers over my stomach, and I press his palm flat against me. His fingers spread wide, possessive and protective all at once. A small sound escapes him—something so raw and honest it makes my throat tight.

His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up to his. “Nova…” he breathes, and I can hear everything he’s not saying in those two syllables.

I watch his control crack just a little more as his gaze drops to my lips.

His fingers curl in the hem of my shirt, drawing it up with aching slowness. I shiver as his palms slide over my skin, mapping every inch as if searching for changes that couldn’t possibly show yet. His touch sets off sparks everywhere he makes contact, but it’s different from his usual intensity. There’s reverence in the way his thumbs trace my hipbones, my ribs.

It’s worship.

“Obviously,” he murmurs against my neck, “I want my baby in here.” His hands span my waist, thumbs meeting just below my navel. The possessiveness in his touch makes me tremble, but it’s the gentleness that brings tears to my eyes.

“Samuil…” I whisper back, and something in my voice makes him lean away to study my face.

His pupils are blown wide, turning his eyes almost black as they track over my features. When his thumbs brush away tears I didn’t realize had fallen, the tenderness in the gesture undoes me completely.

“Are we really doing this?”

I need to hear him say it. Need something solid to hold onto in this moment that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. Like everything is about to change.

His forehead presses against mine. I feel his breath shudder out. “We’re doing this.” His voice is rough, like the words are being dragged from somewhere deep inside him. “You and me. Our child.” His hand slides back to my stomach, protective and possessive. “Mine to protect. Both of you.”

My fingers find the buttons of his shirt as his mouth descends toward mine.

His kiss crashes into me with an urgency I’ve never felt from him before. It’s desperate and tender all at once, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he can’t voice into the connection between us. My legs wrap around his waist as he lifts me onto the counter, pulling him closer, needing to feel his heart thundering against mine.

His hands roam my body with new purpose, learning me all over again with this fresh knowledge between us. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down my neck, then comes back up to capture my mouth again, like he can’t decide which part of me he wants to taste most.

“Together,” I promise, cupping his face between my palms.

He presses closer, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with it. One of his hands splays across my lower back while the other tangles in my hair, cradling my head as he moves against me. Every touch feels heightened, charged with new meaning.

Every kiss feels like a vow.

When he finally pulls back to look at me, I see our future written in his eyes. Whatever comes next —whatever challenges we face—we’ll face them together. As a family.

His hands slide under my thighs, lifting me off the counter. “Bedroom,” he growls against my lips. “Now.”

He carries me like I weigh nothing. My legs tighten around his waist, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. The world tilts and spins, a blur of polished wood and shimmering crystal, but my focus narrows to the man holding me.

To the heat radiating off his skin.

To the way his heart hammers against my chest.

He kicks open the bedroom door, not bothering to set me down before he crashes into me with a kiss that steals my breath. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue tangling with mine as he backs me against the wall. His hands are everywhere at once, pulling at my clothes, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Mine,” he growls against my lips, his voice thick with possessiveness. “All mine. To fill. To breed.”

His words are dirty, raw, and they send a shiver down my spine. I’ve never heard him like this—so unrestrained, so primal. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

He rips open my shirt, his fingers tracing the curve of my breast before his mouth closes over my nipple. A moan escapes me, a sound I’ve never made before, and it seems to fuel his hunger. He sucks hard, drawing a gasp from my lips, and I arch into him, desperate for more.

“So fucking fertile,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin. “Ready to take my seed. Ready to carry my child.”

He pulls back, his eyes burning into mine as he reaches for the button of my jeans. His fingers work quickly, impatiently, and then he’s pushing my jeans down my legs, his gaze fixed on the exposed skin of my hips.

“Tell me you want it, krasavitsa,” he demands, his voice a low growl. “Tell me you want me to ruin you. To make you a mother.”

His words are a challenge, a dare.

I can’t resist.

“Ruin me,” I whisper back, my voice trembling. “Fill me with your child.”

A guttural sound escapes him, a mix of triumph and desire, and then he’s spreading my thighs and devouring me until I come hard in a matter of seconds.

As I’m still lying there, quivering and moaning, he steps back and strips off his own clothes. His body is a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, sculpted by years of hockey and hard work.

I’ve seen him naked before, but tonight, he looks different. Wilder. Hungrier.

He climbs onto the bed, settling between my legs, his eyes blazing with intent. He reaches for me, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through my body.

“Let’s make a baby, Nova,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my ear. And then he’s inside me, moving with a primal urgency that makes me cry out his name.

It’s a quick fucking. After all the build-up, I don’t think either of us could ever have lasted more than a few seconds. But one moment, he’s splitting me open with his cock, reaching places in me no one has ever reached.

Then he’s coming. I am, too, and it’s impossible to say where he stops and I begin. We’re fused at the hip, at the source of the life between us.

I float back to awareness slowly, my body humming with aftershocks. Samuil’s weight pins me to the mattress, his breath hot against my neck. Neither of us seems able to move yet, caught in this perfect moment where we’re still joined, still one.

His hand slides between us to rest on my belly, and the tenderness in that touch brings fresh tears to my eyes. I’ve never felt so cherished, so completely claimed.

“I swear I can feel it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Life. Growing inside you.”

I laugh softly, threading my fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Already? That was fast work, even for you.”

He pushes up on his elbows to look at me, and the intensity in his gaze steals my breath. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his expression that makes my heart clench.

“If not now, then soon.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “I won’t stop until you’re round with my child.”

The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me. Should make me want to run. Instead, it settles something restless inside me. For the first time since this whole mess began, I feel… safe. Protected.

Wanted.

His fingers trace patterns on my skin as we lie tangled together, neither willing to break this bubble of peace we’ve found. The gentle rock of the yacht beneath us feels like a lullaby, and I find myself drifting, warm and sated in his arms.

I fall asleep with his hand still pressed protectively over my womb, dreaming of a future I never dared hope for. I let myself have this dream, this fantasy, for as long as it lasts.

In the morning, everything will change.