Page 43 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
Artem and Ivan should have been here.
“Breathe,” I said.
“I am breathing.”
“Better.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not breathing to exact Russian standards?”
“Your Irish standards appear inefficient.”
She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Good. Humour meant she was still anchored.
Time stopped behaving properly after that.
It broke into pieces.
Pain. Breath. Instructions from the speaker. Fergus growling at invisible threats. And he growled at her Prada slippers when Maeve was quiet. Rain against reinforced glass. Maeve gripped my wrist hard enough to bruise.
She swore at me.
She swore at Artem.
She swore at Ivan.
She swore at God.
She called me “an emotionally constipated wardrobe,” which I chose to accept as a stress response rather than an insult requiring discussion.
At one point she burst into tears because the baby was going to be born on a brand new velvet sofa.
“He won’t know,” I said.
“I’ll know.”
“Then we burn the sofa.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “You cannot burn the sofa. Artem just bought it.”
“Artem can buy another sofa.”
Her chin wobbled. “He would.”
“Yes.”
“He’s ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“I miss him and Ivan.” The admission came out quiet. Small enough it nearly disappeared.
I lowered my forehead briefly to the back of her hand. “They’ll be back. Nine months without you was stressful. They won’t waste another minute if they can get away with it.”
“Thank you, Gregor. I’m happy you’re here.”
“Me too.”
