Page 24 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
Artem nodded once. "We only need one night."
Ivan looked at me as if I might save him from sleeping on old floorboards in a flat built for people half our size. I did the math. It was ugly.
"We will fit badly," I said.
"Gregor, that is not supporting my argument to go to a hotel."
Maeve rubbed her temple. "There’s a hotel on the main road. The George. I’m sure it has comfy beds and plumbing from this century."
"We’re not leaving," Artem grumbled.
Ivan shut his mouth. That was the thing about Artem. He didn’t need to raise his voice when he had already decided the shape of the world. The rest of us just adjusted around it.
Maeve looked between us, then settled on him. Whatever she saw there made some last resistance go out of her shoulders. "Fine. But you’re sleeping on the floor. And one of you is buying me a new sofa."
"Artem will buy you anything you want," Ivan said, because volunteering Artem’s money was one of his purest talents.
Artem barely seemed to hear. He was still watching Maeve with his cake in his hand. I’d seen Artem after fights, after funerals, after boardroom negotiations that ended in blood. I’d never seen this expression on his face. Not victory. Not relief. Something quieter. Reverence, maybe. The kind that makes a man like Artem dangerous.
Maeve turned away to stack plates, but not before I saw her hands shake.
Later, the flat settled around us with all the grace of an irritated cat.
Fergus snored. The floorboards creaked every time Ivan breathed too enthusiastically. Maeve took the bed because none of us were suicidal enough to argue with a pregnant omega in her own flat. Ivan claimed the sofa despite its obvious intent to kill him in his sleep. Artem stretched out on the floor beside the bed. I kept the place by the door. Though, now I was sitting.
“Bathroom,” Maeve squeaked when the room got quiet and the scent of us rose.
She shut herself in the bathroom. Water ran through the pipes with a hollow rattle. I pictured her in there with her face tipped over the sink, taking a few minutes to breathe. Pretending, perhaps, that this was normal. That three men who had spent nine months trying to find her were now asleep in her flat because apparently fate had the sense of humor of a drunk uncle.
Ivan was the one who broke the quiet. "We need to talk about father and Mary. How do we tell Maeve about Mary?"
Artem put an arm over his eyes. "Not now."
"Artem."
He exhaled hard and moved his arm. "What."
Ivan leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Father is not going to let this go. The McCarthy alliance..."
"Is not happening."
"You think saying that makes it true?" Ivan asked. "He has contracts drafted. The McCarthys think it’s settled."
Artem’s voice went flat in a dangerous way. "Mary is not marrying me. Or you. Or Gregor. She is eighteen."
"She’s also an omega," Ivan said. "And our father has never once in his life let morality interfere with logistics."
I said nothing, but my grip tightened on the blanket that Maeve placed over my legs earlier. Ivan was right. The Pakhan did not release leverage once he had his hand around it. Mary McCarthy was young, strategic, and useful. Three qualities that guaranteed misery.
"We’re not doing it," Artem said again.
Ivan gave a humorless laugh. "And when Father learns about Maeve? The baby? What then? You think he’ll send her flowers?"
Artem’s eyes cut to the bathroom door. The water had stopped. "He doesn’t have a choice."
"He always thinks he has a choice."
"He’ll see her as leverage," I said.
