Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

After weeks on the ocean, with nothing but the gentle wash of the waves against the sides of the yacht and the hum of the engine, I’m used to quiet. Serenity.

Helicopter blades don’t fall into that category.

The roar of the chopper wrenches me out of bed. I’m on my feet before I know what’s happening, a hand flying to my belly. That reaction already feels natural. Ever since the test, I touch it again and again, all day and all night, like this baby might disappear if I don’t check on them often enough.

Samuil’s side of the bed is empty. Cold. The sheets still hold the ghost of his warmth, but he’s been gone long enough for anxiety to spider through my veins.

The noise grows louder. Metal against metal. Men’s voices. Heavy boots on deck.

I force myself to breathe. To think. But memories of Ilya flood back—the warehouse, the blindfold cutting into my skin, his voice promising my death. The nausea isn’t just morning sickness anymore.

“Eat your crackers first,” I mutter in a poor imitation of Samuil’s command voice. But my hands shake too hard to reach for the ginger cookies he insists will settle my stomach.

Instead, I press my forehead against the cold porthole glass, watching black helicopter blades cut through the purple dawn sky.

The door opens behind me. I whirl, smacking my head against the metal frame hard enough to see stars.

“I’m so sorry!” Louisa struggles to keep her tray of tea and cookies steady. “I thought you’d still be asleep.”

I can barely hear her over the sound of the helicopter. “Who is here? What’s going on?”

She sets the tray beside the bed with practiced care. “Men are coming aboard. Mr. Litvinov is greeting them above deck. He said he’d check on you soon.”

Nothing about that sentence puts me at ease. Not one single word of it. Theoretically, it should—if Ilya or the Andropovs were here, Samuil wouldn’t be “greeting” anyone. He’d be putting bullets in skulls.

But my throat closes anyway. The walls of our suite—previously a sanctuary of silk and sunlight—press in. Even the gentle rock of waves feels threatening now.

I sink onto the bed’s edge, mechanically lifting a cookie to my mouth. If death is coming, at least I’ll face it with something in my stomach. The thought forces a hysterical giggle from my throat.

The sight and sound of the chopper has awakened something in me. A fear that I didn’t even realize I’ve suppressed. It’s similar to the feeling I had in the woods just before I fell down that ravine.

It’s the helplessness of being hunted.

Except this time, the stakes are so much higher.

The door crashes open. Samuil fills the frame, all six-foot-four of lethal grace wrapped in a tailored suit. His jaw is granite, eyes winter-sharp. This isn’t my Samuil—the man who kisses my belly each morning and fights me about eating before standing.

This is the pakhan, the man who makes other men tremble.

“What’s going on?” I whisper.

He eyes the plate in my hand. “Good. You’re eating.”

“Samuil,” I breathe, “what’s happening?”

“It’s nothing.”

Maybe to him. But to me, a helicopter just landed on the superyacht we’ve been living on. That feels distinctly like something.

“‘Nothing’?” I throw the cookie across the room. It shatters against the wall, sending crumbs raining onto the plush carpet. “A helicopter just landed on our yacht. That’s not nothing, Sam.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. “A couple of my men came aboard to escort us to the next port.”

“What’s wrong with this port?”

“Nothing.” But the way he passes his hand over his nape is the equivalent of him screaming like Chicken Little. “It’s just time for a change in scenery.”

I have no right to be disappointed. Samuil told me this was someone else’s yacht. I knew it was temporary. But watching him dismiss me—treat me like some docile pet to be moved at his convenience, the way he used to treat me, the way we agreed he never would again… It ignites something primal in my chest.

“Where are we going?” I stand, refusing to let him tower over me.

“You’ll find out when we get there.” He turns to leave like that’s the end of it.

I scramble after him, pregnancy-clumsy but determined. “Are you serious? You’re not going to tell me?”

“The men here to escort us don’t even know where we’re going, Nova.”

“The men here to escort us aren’t your—” A title for exactly what I am to him slips between my fingers, so I fumble for something else. “—aren’t having your baby. I think I should have a higher clearance.”

His eyes drop to my stomach, that familiar possessive heat flooding his gaze. For a moment, I think he’ll crack. Tell me something. Anything. But as he turns and strides out of the door, he leaves behind only a single word.

“Later.”

“Later” turns into hours. Hours of pacing outside of his office like a circus tiger while he conducts his “meeting.” Hours of being dismissed by stone-faced Bratva men with guns when I try to get answers.

I’m left to keep pacing and weighing the pros and cons of saying fuck it and barging through the door.

Pro: My righteous indignation would love nothing more than a grand entrance.

Con: The guns in that room likely outnumber humans three to one. If I value my own life and my child’s, I probably shouldn’t surprise anyone armed.

When I finally cave to the insult that is knocking, I raise my fist—only for the door to open and a surly-faced Russian man in a gray suit to block my path.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he says, straddling the line between cold and polite. “We’re in the middle of an important meeting.”

“But Samuil⁠—”

“Mr. Litvinov told me to inform you that we’ll be another hour at least.”

Then he shuts the door in my face. Not even a proper slam—just a quiet, dismissive click.

I stomp back to our suite, already drafting the long, angry rant I plan to deliver the moment Sam comes to find me.

He said he missed my fighting spirit. Well, I’m about to let him have it. I’ll tell him exactly what I think about being treated like property. About being kept in the dark while carrying his child. About how if he wants this relationship to work, he needs to see me as a partner, not a possession. About how we fucking talked about this, all of it, ad fucking nauseam, and yet the second that pregnancy test showed up with two pink lines, it all went out the damn porthole window along with my birth control.

But all that will have to come later. In the meantime, I can only go down to the suite and wait for him on our bed.

And wait.

And wait.

The next thing I know, I’m blinking my eyes open to a dark room and the groggy realization that everything is gone.

My luggage, the clothes I had piled on the chair, Samuil’s shoes—gone, gone, gone. All of it.

I sit up, the world spinning for a second before I can focus on the broad shape of Samuil standing at the end of the bed, zipping a suitcase.

He glances up at me. “There’s a snack by the bed. You should eat.”

Sure enough, a plate of ginger cookies sits on my nightstand—the one piece of furniture he hasn’t cleared. The gesture should be sweet. Instead, it feels patronizing.

“We’re leaving now?” I had a whole speech planned. There were accompanying hand gestures and thoughtful pauses and several brutal, sizzling turns of phrase.

Samuil nods. “I’m glad you woke up on your own. I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”

I snort. “As if that would’ve stopped you.”

Apparently, he doesn’t have time for snark, because he heaves the suitcase off the end of the bed and wheels it towards the doors. “I’ve left some comfortable travel clothes out for you. We leave in ten.”

By the time I glance to my sweats and my favorite sweatshirt covered in embroidered dog paws, Sam is gone.

Grudgingly, I throw on the clothes—annoyed that he knows me well enough to pack an unlined sports bra and fuzzy socks—and then haul my ass upstairs, where the transport boat is already being loaded and readied to launch.

Samuil tosses a duffel bag down into the craft as I stop behind him.

“You gonna fling me down there, too?” I hold my arms out as if I’m ready. “I’m luggage, after all. Something you pack up and move around as you seem fit.”

He turns to me, mouth quirked in an amused smile.

That throws me for a loop, which I don’t appreciate. He’s supposed to match my anger. He’s supposed to snap back, if only so I can justify slapping him.

“You think this is funny?” I demand.

“Well—” He lays a hand over my belly. “—you are carrying precious cargo. The suitcase analogy isn’t so far off.”

My eyes go wide. “If you think I’m just some vessel for you and⁠—”

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to my knuckles. “I think I might need to handcuff you to my wrist like a briefcase full of cash, like the highly valuable package you are.”

“I dare you to handcuff me,” I snarl. “I fucking dare you.”

His eyes dance with amusement and moonlight. “Don’t tempt me, krasavitsa.”

I put my fists on my hips. “I am this close to pushing you overboard.”

He turns his face up to the sky and laughs. “You have no idea how good it is to see your fight come back.”

Things can’t be so dire if he’s in this good of a mood, right?

“Where are we going?” I ask for the billionth time.

He doesn’t answer. Just gives the men below some unspoken command before he turns back to me. “Say goodbye to The Sofia. It’s time to leave.”

“Translation: sit down, shut up, and don’t ask any questions.”

I take one look back at the yacht. I really will miss it. For a few weeks, at least, it felt something like home.

He shakes his head and sidles closer to me. I fight him for only a second before his arms wrap around my shoulders. He brushes a kiss against the top of my head. “Translation: take a deep breath and trust me. I’m trying to keep you and our baby safe.”

As the transport boat carries us away from the yacht, I feel every dip and ripple on the water. I pull my knees to my chest and think about Grams and Hope. I think about Rufus and Ruby.

Most of all, I wonder if and when I’ll ever be able to stop running.