Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

I peek around the corner like a creeper.

I’m pretending to rifle through my half-dozen bags’ worth of Harrods haul—courtesy of Samuil’s AmEx black card, which is still sizzling hot from how many times I swiped it today. What I’m really doing, though, is playing voyeur to the scene unfolding in the doorway.

With the boss man tied up in meetings, Myles got stuck playing tour guide and watchdog to Hope and Nova’s Great London Adventure, coming soon to a theater near you.

What that means for yours truly, however, is that I was instantly demoted to “third wheel,” and my best friend and bodyguard each promptly forgot all about my existence.

Not that I’m complaining. Watching Hope and Myles slink around each other all day like cats in heat has been almost as fun as the shopping.

Since we got back to the suite ten minutes ago, they’ve both been loitering in the doorway, neither willing to say goodbye just yet.

“Those bags look heavy,” Myles remarks for the millionth time. “Sure I can’t help?”

Hope’s cherry-red lips curl into a wicked smile. “My bedroom’s a fortress, soldier. Not that easy to breach.”

He peers down the hall to the room in question. “There an application process I should know about?”

“Big time. Long. Grueling. Only the elite make it through.”

“Good thing I’ve got a perfect track record.” His massive shoulders rise in a casual shrug that’s anything but casual. “And I always finish what I start.”

Pink floods Hope’s cheeks—a rare sight on my usually unflappable friend. She busies herself with her shopping bags, but I catch her sneaking glances up at him through her lashes. “Cocky, much?”

“I prefer ‘determined.’ I usually get what I want.”

“I’m sure you’ve been ‘determined’ to get a lot of women.”

Myles presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I’m like a penguin. A one-woman kind of man. It’s quality over quantity for me.”

“Which am I?”

“Quality.” His voice drops to a rumble that makes even my toes curl. “Crème de la crème.”

She giggles shyly, a sound I’ve literally never heard from her before. “Paris is on the other side of the Channel, lover boy.”

But Myles is completely undeterred. “Close enough.” His palm connects with the wall by her head. and holy mother of foreplay, this is it.

Then Hope’s eyes find mine. I cringe, stifle a scream, and try to duck back around the corner.

But no dice. Busted.

The door clicks shut moments later. Hope floats in while I fold my new clothes with fake concentration.

“He’s a charmer, that one,” she remarks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

“The Bratva boys do bring the heat.”

She face-plants onto the mattress with a dramatic sigh. “He’s nothing but trouble, though.”

I park myself next to her. “I might be slightly biased here, but it must be said: Myles is a good egg, Hope. You could do a whole lot worse.”

“You’re supposed to tell me to be careful and not get emotionally involved. I was counting on you to be the voice of reason here.” She pokes me in the thigh and laughs, though it fades quickly.

I don’t give her the easy out of the joke. “You like him, don’t you?”

She rolls her eyes toward the crown molding. “Duh. He’s walking, talking book boyfriend material. Ink, muscle, danger—the unholy trinity. My lady bits are doing the mambo.”

“Ew, Hope, spare me the details.”

“Is this how Samuil got you? The whole dangerous-and-delicious combo?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s leave my lady bits out of this.”

She flops onto her stomach with a dramatic groan. “Dating Myles would be like… like juggling. Juggling chainsaws, maybe. While walking a tightrope. And the tightrope is on fire.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Is that you being the rational angel on my shoulder? Are you telling me to run for the hills? Will you and your Russian sugar daddy fund my new identity and help me start fresh somewhere tropical?” Before I can answer her jumbled nonsense, she sighs. “But his smile, NoNo. Have you seen his smile? Every time he smiles at me⁠—”

“When you’re gushing about his smile,” I warn, “you’re already drowning. My rational advice won’t save you now.”

“Then give me the crazy version.” Hope sits up, crossing her legs and fixing me with her I promise I’m being serious look. “You’ve tamed your Russian beast. Share your secrets.”

I snort. “‘Tamed’ is doing a lot of work in that sentence, babe.”

“Oh, please. I’ve been watching you two. You’re head over heels⁠—”

“I wouldn’t say head over⁠—”

“—and trust me, baby girl, it’s mutual.”

My traitorous heart skips. I roll the thought around before curiosity wins. “You think?”

“Nova, seriously?” Hope’s eyes bug out of her head. “The man moves mountains for you. His methods are questionable as fuck, but his devotion isn’t. I’m here living large literally just because he wanted to see you smile.” She points at her feet, then taps her temple. “Head. Heels. I know it.”

I let out an exhale as my chin droops to my chest and the dress I was folding goes fluttering out of my hands.

“Things have been good lately,” I admit softly.

“Exactly. So when’s he gonna make you his queen?”

That unleashes a rain cloud right over my parade. Things have been good, yes. But “good” doesn’t mean “forever-after” good.

I shouldn’t indulge these fantasies of Samuil on one knee, or waiting at the altar in a tailored tux. What we have is enough.

It has to be.

“You’re on the spot and I’m not letting you out of it,” Hope says with another gentle poke in my belly. “It’s a valid question. You’re carrying his spawn.”

“That’s different. We’ll be family, but… marriage isn’t Samuil’s style.”

“Bullshit,” she retorts. “He married that psycho Katerina. You’re an upgrade in every way.”

“And look how that ended!” I plop back down on the mattress next to her. “He’s not exactly rushing back to the altar.”

“That’s like…” Hope’s face scrunches as she thinks. “Getting mauled by a tiger, then saying you don’t like puppies. You’re nothing like her.”

“That’s the issue,” I mumble. “She belonged in his world.”

“And that matters because…?”

Restlessly, I get to my feet. “Because it means she knew what she was getting into. She knew how to be a Bratva wife. She understood his world, his life, what was expected of her.”

“And yet, she’s his ex-wife and you’re his pregnant girlfriend. So maybe this whole I’m-not-the-right-woman-for-him bit is just a way of sabotaging yourself and this relationship so you can avoid getting hurt.”

Oof.

I start pacing, if only to put a little distance between myself and Hope’s blunt brand of truth-telling. “I’m not trying to sabotage anything. I’m just…” I huff out a breath. “I’m trying to be realistic, Hope. When it’s just the two of us, that’s one thing. But I don’t know how to be in Samuil’s world.”

“I got news for you, honey. That baby in your belly means you’re going to be a part of his world permanently, whether you like it or not.”

I turn my gaze towards the London skyline. The clouds overhead are gray, dense, cottony. A light drizzle is misting over the roses out on the balcony.

“You make a good point.”

She rises and joins me at the window, looping her arm through mine and resting her head on my shoulder. A gesture so familiar it makes my throat tight. “You know what I see when I look at you two?”

I shake my head slightly, not trusting my voice.

“I see the way he watches you when you’re not looking. Like you’re this rare, beautiful thing he can’t quite believe is real. And I see the way you soften around him. How your walls come down brick by brick.” She squeezes my arm. “That’s not about being a perfect Bratva wife or fitting some mold. That’s about two people choosing each other despite everything.”

I place my hand over my belly. The baby is still a bit too young to kick, but I talk myself sometimes into believing he or she is already moving, breathing, thriving, loving. It’s enough to remind me I’m never truly alone anymore.

There’s a part of me that desperately wants to believe in Hope’s version of love conquering all. The part that melts when Samuil wraps his arms around me at night. The part that thrills at how his presence fills every room. The part that wants to believe I’m enough—more than enough—to be his equal partner in this life we’re creating.

But there’s another part of me that can’t forget what I’ve seen. What he’s done. What he might still do in the future.

The imagined flutter comes again, gentle but insistent, like a reminder that some choices have already been made. Some bridges already crossed.

Hope presses her cheek to my shoulder. “Stop thinking so hard. You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.”

“I can’t help it.” I rest my forehead against the cool glass, watching London blur through the fog. “Everything’s changing so fast.”

“Yeah,” she agrees softly. “But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

I close my eyes and let out a long breath, thinking of Samuil’s arms around me, his voice in my ear, his hand protective over our growing child.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe change is exactly what we all need.