Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)

I’m living a nightmare.

I’m sitting on the deck of a private superyacht with a still-warm snickerdoodle muffin and an iced matcha latte in front of me, and I can’t even bring myself to look at either one.

Louisa steps back, smiling proudly at the tray she just slid in front of me. “You said these were your favorite, ma’am.”

I did say that, didn’t I?

One of the crewmembers played cards with me yesterday and used the opportunity to dig for more information on how to take this superyacht to the next level. Apparently, it’s not enough to have two exercise rooms, multiple sun decks, and a theater room with every movie I’ve ever wanted to watch. No, it also needs a chef who can whip up whatever my heart desires with zero notice.

“You and the entire crew are a wonder, Louisa.” I beam up at her, hoping she isn’t noticing the way I’m sliding the napkin with the muffin on it to the edge of the table. The breeze off the water is sending the smell of cinnamon straight into my nose.

I think I’m going to be sick.

Louisa shifts around the table, blocking my view. That’s just as well for me. Watching the waves toss is probably why I’m feeling so queasy this morning. “At least try a bite so I can tell Chef what you think.”

I could refuse her. Samuil has made it clear over the last two weeks that I’m free to do whatever I want on this yacht.

Sleep in until noon? Go ahead.

Tan topless on the private deck? Sure, albeit only if he can watch.

Cut dinner short so he can spread me on the table and eat me instead? The crew has now added it to the daily schedule and learned to keep their distance.

But I don’t want to refuse. I want to thank Louisa for all of her work. I want the chef to know I’m grateful.

So, even as my stomach roils, I pinch off the smallest possible crumb of the muffin and drop it into my mouth.

Some part of me recognizes the burst of flavor. It’s buttery and sweet with a punch of spices and cinnamon. I should be crying tears of joy that someone made my favorite treat in the middle of the ocean.

Instead, my insides are churning with the desire to expel the small morsel of muffin along with everything else I’ve managed to choke down today.

“Delicious!” I chirp, swallowing a gag.

Thankfully, Louisa seems satisfied. She promises to pass the praise along to Chef and then retreats below deck to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s out of view, I launch myself out of the sunchair and sprint down the stairs to my suite.

I blow through the door, grateful Samuil isn’t inside, and use the bedpost to swing myself into the bathroom like Tarzan. I just barely manage to drop to my knees and lift the lid before everything in my stomach comes back up with a vengeance.

Several unpleasant minutes and several flushes later, I close the lid and press my cheek to the cool porcelain surface. I’m hot and sweaty and so miserable that I don’t care that I’m using a toilet lid as an ice pack. I happen to know the maid scrubs this thing twice per day. I could eat off of it without getting sick.

Which means there’s no reason at all for me to be this sick.

Like the universe is trying to remind me where I am, the yacht lurches ever-so-slightly. But no, we’ve been here for days. Why would I only get seasick now?

I close my eyes, trying to regain my equilibrium. Nerves and anxiety and fear typically go after my heart, my lungs, my mind. My stomach has always been something I could count on.

But it’s been days of on-and-off nausea. Last night, I refused the pre-dinner cheese board, which caught Samuil’s eye. Turning down cheese is definitely a distress call in the world of Nova Pierce, and Sam is nothing if not observant. But I played it off well enough.

“I want to save room for dinner,” I explained.

Thankfully, by the time the seafood fettuccine arrived, my stomach was settled. I scarfed down my entire plate and then doubled back to the cheese board for good measure.

But I’m paying for it in spades right now.

“Why?” I moan into the crook of my arm. “Why me?”

I peel myself off the bathroom floor and trudge over to the sink.

I slept for nine hours last night, but my eyes burn with exhaustion. Every part of me feels achy and bloated.

I cross my arms over my body and wince when I accidentally graze my boob.

Because of course my boobs hurt, too. The one part of me that wasn’t used as a doggy chew toy or scraped up in my tumble down the ravine is now aching of its own accord. Can’t a girl catch a break?

I’m bending towards the sink to rinse out my mouth when, like the tumblers in a lock, the facts shift into place.

The nausea.

The soreness.

The fatigue.

For days, I’ve been attributing all of it to my escape from Ilya, the fall down the forest ravine, the antibiotics, my recovery. I’m certainly not short on things to blame.

But I shouldn’t be getting worse as time passes, right?

I freeze, my hands gripping either side of the sink as I count back through the days and weeks and months in search of my last cycle. But it’s all hazy.

Since meeting Samuil, I’ve had more sex than I’ve ever had before. But life has also been more chaotic than it’s ever been, and I occasionally forget to take my birth control.

I lunge for my makeup bag, upending the moisturizer and accidentally turning the hot water faucet on high as I rifle through the contents. I pull out my pills and flip open the lid.

“Oh, God,” I groan. I press my forehead to the mirror in hopes I’ll fall through into an alternate reality where I’m not the dumbest woman alive.

The pill container is like a half-finished tic-tac-toe game. I thought I’d maybe missed one or two doses here or there, but it’s more like I’m forgetting as often as I remember. Add to that the kidnapping stress and the antibiotics for my injuries, and there’s no way this medicine is doing what it’s supposed to.

I press a hand to my stomach, jostling it like it’s a Magic 8 Ball.

Am I pregnant?

There’s a gurgle. Reply hazy, try again.

I try to think through my options. The yacht has a fully stocked medical unit. There could be a pregnancy test in there, but I’d have to ask for it. And it’s not as if I could lie and say it was for a friend.

Louisa might keep my secret if I asked her to, but I don’t want to put her in that position.

Plus, it doesn’t matter. As I breathe through another wave of nausea, the haze of uncertainty clears fast. I can feel the truth in my bones.

I’m carrying a child.

I press my hand to my stomach again, waiting for panic or another bout of heaving. But there’s nothing. No dizziness. No feeling of the walls closing in.

Instead, as I circle my thumb over my stomach, I picture a rosy-cheeked baby with Samuil’s silver eyes and my dark brown hair. I picture a little human who is part Samuil and part me. I close my eyes and imagine the three of us at the park, a giggling toddler chasing after Rufus and Ruby in the grass. Chubby little hands would reach for Samuil, and he’d scoop our child up and spin in circles until he tumbled dizzily to the soft grass, laughing in that rare, carefree way I love so much.

This isn’t happening the way I would have planned it. But then again, nothing in my life so far has gone to plan. Why start now?

“Nova?” My heartrate kicks up, and I snap my eyes open as Samuil’s voice slips under the crack in the door.

“In here!” I’m going for an “easy, breezy, beautiful, CoverGirl” kind of tone, but my voice comes out shaky and unconvincing.

He tries the knob, but finds it locked. “Louisa said you ran off the deck.”

So much for Louisa keeping my secrets. She ratted me out the first chance she got.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“Then let me in.”

“I can’t. I’m… sick.” The best kind of lie has a little bit of truth in it, right?

“Then let me in,” he repeats, trying the knob again. “Let me help you.”

“You’ve done enough.” I snort with laughter, still processing what I’m accepting, more and more by the second, to be true.

Sam slams a hand against the thin wooden door. “Open the damn door and tell me what’s going on, Nova.”

I’m not ready, but I don’t think I’ll ever be. So I pull open the door to reveal Samuil glowering on the other side.

His eyes scrape over me instantly, assessing me for injuries. Finding nothing, he frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know for sure, but… I kind of know for sure.”

He frowns. “I don’t like guessing games. Tell me what’s happening.”

My mouth opens, and…

Between abductions, espionage, and all the unprotected sex we’ve been having, I forgot to take my birth control. Congratulations, Daddy.

“Nova…” Samuil growls, taking a step closer. He fills the small bathroom, making it hard to breathe.

Maybe that’s why the truth tumbles out of me with no build-up.

“I’m pregnant.”