Chapter 39
2120words
Facing my reflection in the mirror, I pull at the bags under my eyes.
I look like shit.
It's not just sleep that eludes me. It's that when I do go under, my dreams are shifting, torturous things that assault me. I've always been plagued by demons. For a little while, with Camila at my side, they retreated. But since Mila came by with more useless intel, nothing soothes me.
My most talented assassin has no idea what Yannick is doing. She doesn't know where he is, what he wants, or when he'll act. Fuck, or if he even will act. The bastard has gone underground without any indication of resurfacing.
Scratching at my hair, I shut my eyes with a shaky sigh. My world is falling apart. It's dramatic, yes, but it's how it feels. I'm nothing without my plans. All I've focused on for the last ten years is how to eradicate Yannick with my own two hands.
How do you kill a ghost?
Shambling into my bathroom, I run the hot water in my shower until the room is covered in steam. It's so thick it chokes me. The water will burn me, but I stand under it anyway, enduring the scalding pain. Can I wash away all my errors? It's a silly wish, because I know the answer is a resounding no.
Hanging my head, I remain under the running water until my skin is bright pink. I'm numb from my neck to my stomach, where the droplets assault me. Before the waterlogged wrinkles on my fingers split open, I turn off the shower.
The water is gone … but I stay where I am. It's not until the steam fades and my skin turns cold as a corpse that I rip a towel from the wall, drying my body. I've run through a gauntlet of self-immolation. However, when I look in the mirror, I know I'm unchanged. There are no wounds. No new scars. I'm the same man weighed down by his multitude of sins.
I dress myself thoughtlessly. It's a miracle I end up in brown slacks that match the hunter-green long-sleeved dress shirt I've put on. Sitting heavily on the end of my bed, I push my feet into polished leather boots.
Stalking from my room, I descend the stairs toward the lower levels. I'm walking without a destination. My stomach clenches, warning me I need food. I can ignore it—I have before—but I let it lead me toward the kitchen.
Sweet scents swirl into my nose. Sugar, maple, honey. All of them pale in comparison to her. Camila's smell overpowers everything. I become a bloodhound when she's near, unable to shift my focus onto anything else.
She stands by the granite island. Her back is to me so I can see the perfect crease of her shoulder blades, the arch of her spine, the tempting southern hemisphere of her hips. Her white dress is crisp as a notecard. It calls to memory the wedding dress she wore at our ceremony.
And just like that … she washes away the misery that my hot shower could not.
My life is a Gordian knot. Camila is the only good thing in it.
Like a man possessed, I go to her. My boots scuff lightly on the white tiles of the kitchen floor. She hears me coming, turning as she takes a bite of the muffin in her hand. It's studded with red cranberries throughout, hard crystals of sugar clinging to the surface. I notice the empty wrapper of one she's already finished sitting on a tiny blue plate. Beside it is a glass of orange juice, or what's left of it.
'Asher," she says around the food. Chewing, she washes it down, then reaches for me. I take her cue, scooping her close to kiss her cheek. On the island is a woven basket with a striped towel inside; it cradles a pile of various breakfast pastries.
'Try these muffins. Danil made them this morning. I've already had one." Camila stuffs the other half of a cranberry muffin into her mouth. 'Two, I mean." She giggles like she's done something naughty.
There are crumbs sticking to her lips and cheeks. I reach out, dusting some away. 'You look beautiful like that," I whisper.
She places the wrapper back on the plate to join the first. 'Do I?" she asks, smiling coyly. 'I'm just standing here stuffing my face."
My arms circle her tighter. She sinks against my chest while I lean into her. I inhale the scent of her hair, groaning. 'You're beautiful because you exist."
Camila sighs under her breath. She reaches up, stroking my jaw, turning us together until we kiss again. Her tongue grazes mine delicately. I can taste the tartness of cranberries. The softness of the kiss—of her—wakes my senses. The familiar ache of need wraps itself around my core. My cock stiffens. I wonder if we can get away with having sex right here. The staff might hear, but they'd know not to interrupt.
The sunshine gets in my eyes. I move us until we're facing the opposite wall. Our shadows spread across there, merging together in perfect unison. Camila sways slightly, and our shadows dance. Tracing my nails down her arms, I nuzzle the side of her throat.
With a full-body shiver, Camila pulls away from me. 'Asher," she groans.
I reach for her in confusion. 'What is it?"
She hunches over the table and begins to shudder, her shoulders rising and falling like the tide. 'I don't feel right."
'What's wrong?" I ask, clasping her shoulder protectively.
'I … I don't know. I just—oh." Her hand clamps over her mouth. With her eyes bulging, she breaks away, rushing down the hall. The stairs thunk with her running up them.
'Camila!" I yell, chasing after her. She's fast—if she'd run like this when I first kidnapped her, without my men there, she might have escaped. I take a mild fall when I turn on a dime to make sure I don't lose sight of her. She bounces off the railing on the landing, sending a small vase of dried sage and flowers toppling to the floor.
Ignoring it, I jump over it and follow her into her bedroom. She sprints into the bathroom attached to it. She doesn't bother to close the door, so I have a full view of her dropping to her knees in front of the toilet. And without warning, she vomits.
Tensing up in confusion, I kneel beside her, rubbing her back. 'Camila!"
She waves a hand at me hastily. She tries to say something but retches again.
'I'm going to call a doctor."
'No, I … I'll be fine. I just—" She never finishes her sentence before retching again.
'You're not fine." Yanking out my phone, I dial as fast as I can.
Pacing Camila's bedroom, listening to her throwing up, I bring the doctor up to speed. Once I'm done, I stare out the window, searching for his car. It doesn't take him more than fifteen minutes to arrive, but it feels like forever.
Rushing down the stairs, I meet him at the front. Dr. Helsan is in his late fifties, but thanks to his round cheeks and bushy mustache, he seems younger. I've found his cheeriness to be unnerving in the past. No man who walks into the bloody scenes that a Bratva war creates should smile so much.
'This way," I tell him, grabbing the sleeve of his white jacket. He doesn't fight me as he struggles to keep up with my quick steps. I guide him back to where Camila is. She's moved from the toilet to her bed, but when we walk in, she throws her blankets aside. Her hair is clinging to her face from sweat.
'Camila," I tell her. 'Dr. Helsan here."
'Let's see what's going on," he says.
'I feel like I ate something bad," she groans weakly.
The doctor helps walk Camila into the restroom. 'Let's go in here," he tells her kindly. 'I'm going to run a few tests."
'What kinds of tests?" I demand.
He gives me a flat look. Many people are intimidated by me, but Dr. Helsan isn't. 'I'm helping my patient, Mr. Volkov. You need to stay out there. Everything will be fine, I promise."
'If you touch my wife without my permission," I round on him, 'I won't hesitate to end you."
'Let me do my job. Please." He closes the door softly.
Through it, I hear Camila vomit again. The doctor is mumbling something to her that I can't discern, but it's in a pleasant tone.
Unsure what to do with myself, I begin marching back and forth in front of the bathroom. What could be wrong with her? Is it an illness? Something someone did? I stiffen, my hands making tight fists. What if someone poisoned her?
Moments later, the door opens. The doctor guides Camila toward her bed. She's still pale, her forehead shiny, like she's been out for a hard run.
'I'm going to fucking fire Danil," I snarl.
'No!" Camila holds up a hand, waving it anxiously. The doctor gently coaxes her to lie back. 'Asher, don't. If he did anything, it was an accident."
'Instead of punishing people, Mr. Volkov," Dr. Helsan chuckles, 'you should be celebrating."
'What are you talking about?" I ask angrily.
Clapping me on both shoulders, he beams as wide as humanly possible. 'You're going to be a father."
The room begins to sway around me. I grip the bedpost to balance myself. Camila's face swims into view; she's gaping, and her expression mirrors mine. 'A father?" I repeat softly.
'Asher," she breathes. Light enters her wide eyes. She's glowing from the inside out. I feel it coming off her … Or maybe it's coming from inside me.
The doctor politely clears his throat. 'I'll leave you two then. My bill will be in the mail. Goodbye."
I don't bother to watch him leave. I can't quit staring at Camila.
A baby.
Our baby.
I go toward her, and she meets me halfway. We embrace one another and she clings to me. 'Is this really happening?"
'I suppose it is," I say.
She smiles big enough to make the corners of her eyes crinkle. 'You should see the grin on your face."
'I'm grinning?" Touching my mouth, I realize she's right. The happiness is overwhelming. To think, Camila and I created a child! My instinct takes over—there's only one direction to aim all the joy in my body. But when I kiss Camila, she doesn't respond in kind. Her lips are hesitant. 'Camila?" I ask gently.
The delight that was in her eyes has turned to something else. 'It's nothing."
'No, talk to me." I take her hands in mine, rubbing my thumbs over her wrists.
'It's just … I can't stop thinking about before." Her palm makes a circle over her belly, moving like a clock's hands. 'What if it happens again? What if?—"
'No, Camila." My tone is sharp, and it gets her attention. 'Nothing is going to happen to this baby. But if it does, it won't be your fault. Just like it wasn't your fault before." The severity in my eyes could cut glass. 'I promise."
Kissing her, I clutch her cheeks, making sure she can't escape.
Camila grabs me back—escaping is clearly the furthest thing from her mind.
Her nails make paths through my hair. Each stroke lifts the hairs on the back of my neck. She summons a new wave of desire with every movement, as if she's casting a spell. Camila, my ptichka. It's not a crazy thought. I'm trapped in whatever magic she's cast on me. Lowering my mouth, I kiss her bare shoulder, not leaving until I've touched every inch of skin, and after that, I take my time with her opposite side.
I've memorized this woman from top to bottom. In such a short time frame, I feel like I've learned her body better than my own. And in spite of that, I explore her like she's a new world I've never set foot on. I could spend hours playing with her … listening to how she whimpers in my ear.
Cupping her breasts through her green dress, I massage the tender flesh. Her firm nipples dig into my palms. Gripping them, I twist lightly, summoning a throaty moan from her plump lips. My obsession with her reactions knows no bounds. I'm addicted to making her aware of me. I need to have an impact on every moment of her life.
Just like she does with mine.
