Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

He’s everywhere. My personal demon, marking his territory and chasing away the shadows that have haunted me these past three weeks. Every touch reignites nerve endings I thought had gone dormant in his absence. His hands trace my curves with excruciating tenderness.

Hours pass in a haze of pleasure. Outside our turret room’s soaring windows, the Scottish night unfolds like black velvet studded with pinwheeling stars.

Inside, we’re cocooned in the aftermath of what we’ve done to each other. My muscles are liquid, my skin sheened with sweat, and the only coherent thought in my head is finally.

Finally, he’s back.

Finally, he’s mine again.

“You’re thinking too loud,” Sam murmurs against my hair.

I trace the scar on his chest, memorizing its shape, its texture. “I’m thinking about how much I hate missing you.”

“Then stop missing me.” His thumb draws lazy circles on my stomach. “I’m right here.”

“For how long, though?”

Instead of answering, he pulls me closer, tucking me into the hollow of his throat where I can breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Long enough to make up for lost time.” His voice vibrates against my lips. “Long enough to remind you why you fell for me in the first place.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ve fallen for you at all.”

He chuckles. “Your body just spent the last hour proving otherwise, zaychik.”

I bite his collarbone in retaliation, but we both know he’s right. No matter how much I fight it, no matter how many times he leaves, I’ll always want him back.

That’s the problem with loving monsters: Once you let them in, they nest in your heart and refuse to leave.

His scar glints in the moonlight as I trace it once again, gathering courage like breadcrumbs. “Can I ask you a question?”

He pauses, then exhales. “You can ask.”

“What scares you more—Ilya finding us, or becoming a father?”

Sam’s hand stills on my belly. For a heartbeat, I think I’ve pushed too far, crossed one of his invisible lines. But then he shifts, propping himself on an elbow to study my face.

“Both keep me awake at night.” His jaw works, and I recognize his struggle to find words that aren’t wrapped in thorns. “I never wanted children before. Never saw the point of bringing innocents into this life.”

“And now?”

“Now, I dream about our child. About protecting you both.” He splays his fingers wider across my stomach. “About being nothing like my father.”

“You won’t be.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. I do.” I cover his hand with mine. “You show it every time you touch me. Every time you look at me like I matter more than revenge.”

His eyes darken. “You do matter more. That’s what terrifies me.” He presses his lips to my temple, breath warm against my skin. “My father taught me that love makes you weak. Makes you vulnerable. But when I think about our baby—about you carrying my child—I’ve never felt stronger.”

Something breaks loose in my chest, a shard of ice I didn’t know I was carrying. “So you’re not disappointed? That it happened so fast?”

“Krasavitsa.” He cups my face, thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’ve given me something I never dared to want. How could I be disappointed?”

I lean into his touch, memorizing this rare moment of total honesty between us. Tomorrow, he might rebuild his walls, but tonight—tonight, he’s mine.

Or at least, he was. Then his phone vibrates on the nightstand and a few of those bricks go right back in place between us.

“Your father?” I ask, already knowing the answer from the way his jaw tightens.

“He’s requesting my presence in London. Again.” Sam reaches for the phone but doesn’t check the message. Instead, he rubs the screen’s edge with his thumb, lost in thought.

“Are you going to listen?”

“Fuck no. I saw enough of him last week.”

I study the harsh lines of his profile in the moonlight. “You said he seemed… different.”

“Weaker,” he agrees. “He’s never backed down before. Not from anything.”

“Maybe he’s finally realizing what he could lose.”

Sam’s laugh is nearly lifeless. “He isn’t capable of that. If he’s showing weakness, it’s because he wants me to lower my guard.”

“Or maybe he’s sick.” The thought springs unbidden to my lips. “You said he looked frail.”

“The great Leonid? Mortal?” Sam’s fingers find my hair, twisting a strand around his knuckle. “That would require him to be human first.”

“Everyone’s human, Sam. Even mob bosses.”

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I glimpse the little boy who grew up desperately seeking his father’s approval. “Not him. Trust me, zaychik. If death comes for my father, he’ll negotiate his way out of that, too.”

“You make him seem like a god.”

“I used to think he was,” Sam admits. “You should have seen him back then.” A ghost of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Six and a half feet of tyranny. He’d stride into a room and everyone would stop breathing.”

“Like father, like son?”

“In some ways, perhaps.” His jaw tightens. “Leonid was… magnetic. He’d take Ilya and me hunting in Siberia, tracking bears through snow so deep it swallowed our legs. Or we’d spend weekends on Lake Michigan, learning to sail his racing yacht. He made everything look effortless.”

The pride in Sam’s voice carries an edge of old pain. “You wanted to be just like him,” I guess.

He nods somberly. “Every boy does. Even when their father pits them against their brother in endless competitions.” His fingers find my belly again, protective. “I lived for the moments he’d look at me with approval. The times he’d say, ‘Molodets’ after I scored a goal or landed a marlin. For years, I thought if I could just be stronger, faster, smarter than Ilya, he’d⁠—”

Sam cuts himself off, throat working.

I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath my touch. “Our child will never have to compete for your love,” I whisper fiercely.

His eyes meet mine, dark with promise. “Never.”

Sam’s fingertips ghost across my stomach in feather-light patterns, as if he’s trying to communicate with our child through touch alone. The tenderness in his caress makes my throat tight.

“I used to think it was normal.” His voice drops low, intimate. “What he did to us. How he raised us.”

“And now?”

“Now, I look at you carrying our child and I want…” He shifts, pressing his forehead to my belly. “I want lazy Sunday mornings teaching them to make blini. I want to watch them draw terrible pictures that we’ll hang on the fridge. I want to read them stories about brave little rabbits who outsmart wolves.”

My heart cracks open at the image. This fierce, dangerous man imagining such gentle moments.

“The day I found out about you being pregnant, I realized something.” His lips brush my skin. “A good father would have taught us that winning isn’t everything. That sometimes, the best victories come from working together, not tearing each other apart.”

I cup his jaw, tilting his face up to mine. “You already know more about being a good father than Leonid ever did.”

His eyes darken with emotion. “Because of you. You make me want to be worthy of this.” His palm spreads wide over our growing child. “Of both of you.”

My fingers pass over the stark lines of Sam’s tattoos—Cyrillic letters that mark his skin like prayers or curses. “The thing about being born into a family like yours or mine?” I press my lips to each letter. “It’s like being assigned a role in a play we never auditioned for.”

Sam’s chest rises beneath my touch. “Some roles are impossible to escape.”

“But we can rewrite the script.” I lift my head, meeting his gaze in the moonlight. “You’re not Leonid’s puppet anymore. You’re not his soldier or his heir or his weapon against Ilya.” My palm finds his heartbeat. “You’re going to be a father. And you get to decide what kind of father you’ll be.”

His arm curls around my neck, drawing me closer until our breaths mingle. “What if this child grows up hating me the way I hate him?”

“They won’t.” I pour every ounce of conviction into my voice. “Because you know exactly how it feels to be unloved. To be a disappointment.” My fingers find his jaw. “You can give our baby what you always wanted: unconditional love. Real pride. The freedom to be imperfect.”

Sam’s entire body goes still beneath me. For a moment, he’s utterly silent. Then his arms lock around me, crushing me to his chest as if he could absorb my certainty through skin alone.

“Zaychik.” His voice breaks on the endearment. “How do you see straight through my armor?”

“Because I recognize the cracks.” I press my lips to his throat. “They match mine.”