"Tell me about it." I pull her against my side, and she curls into me like she belongs there. "What do you want? Boy or girl?"
"Healthy. That's all I want." She traces patterns on my chest. "Though a girl might be nice. Someone to teach all my survival skills to."
"God help me if she has your stubborn streak."
"She'll need it, growing up in your world." Her voice goes quiet. "Aleksandr, I need to tell you something else."
"What?"
"My parents." She sits up, turning to face me. "I haven't spoken to them in three years. They don't know if I'm alive or dead. I've been carrying this guilt, this weight of abandoning them, but I was too afraid that any contact would lead your people to me or them."
The pain in her voice makes my chest ache. "Lena."
"They deserve to know I'm alive. They deserve to know about the baby." Tears stream down her face again.
I tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my eyes. "I'll arrange a meeting. You can see them, tell them everything, and they can meet their future grandchild."
Hope flashes across her face. "You'd do that?"
I nod and kiss her forehead. "Your parents deserve to know you're alive, and you need to see them."
She kisses me then, soft and sweet, and I taste salt from her tears. When we break apart, she's smiling through the crying.
"I'm going to hold you to that promise."
I stand. "Now finish your soup. You need to eat something."
"Bossy," she mutters, but she returns to the table.
I'm cutting another piece of steak when my phone rings. Danil's name flashes on the screen, and something in my gut tightens.
"What is it?" I answer.
"We have a problem." His voice is grim. "Katya Rostova has disappeared from her home. None of our contacts know where she's gone."
47
LENA
The private jet cuts through the night sky, and I press my forehead against the cool window, watching city lights appear on the horizon like scattered diamonds. My stomach has finally settled after the ginger ale and crackers Aleksandr forced me to consume before we left Montana, but the nausea has been replaced by a different kind of sick feeling.
Katya Rostova is in the wind.
Aleksandr sits across from me, his laptop open, phone pressed to his ear. He's been making calls for the past hour, his voice low and deadly calm in a way that makes my spine straighten automatically. This isn't the man who held me while I cried about my parents. This is the Pakhan, and watching him work is like watching a predator coordinate a hunt.
"I don't care if you have to knock on every door in the city," he says into the phone, his gold eyes hard as stone. "Find her. I want to know where she's been, who she's talked to, and what she's planning. You have twelve hours."
He ends the call and immediately dials another number. His fingers drum against his thigh, the only sign of tension in his otherwise controlled demeanor. The movement draws my attention to the way his dress pants pull tight across his muscular legs, and even terrified and exhausted, my body notices.
His eyes flick to mine, and something in his expression softens. Just for a moment, the Pakhan mask slips, and I see concern there. Real concern.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, setting down his phone.
"Like I'm about to throw up again, but that might just be fear instead of pregnancy." I try for humor, but my voice shakes.
He crosses to sit beside me, his hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together. The touch grounds me, reminds me that I'm not alone in this anymore. "We'll find her before she can make another move."
"You don't know that."