Page 86 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"I was going to lie to you," I said. The honesty landed harder than any deception would have. Several of the older heads straightened in their chairs. "The McCarthy syndicate is legally bound to the Petrovs. Callum McCarthy has his signature on paper, and that paper is what matters to him. It's what should matter to this council. But the woman you see—" I paused and took her hand. "She is the mother of my son. The center of mypack. She is not part of the negotiation. She is not for sale. And she is untouchable."
The room balanced on a knife's edge. I could feel the traditionalists weighing the insult of my honesty against the reality of my power. An omega I refused to trade was either a weakness or a declaration, and which one they decided would determine the vote.
Mikhail stood.
He was not a tall man. Age had shrunk him sometime in his sixties, and his suits had been retailored to accommodate the loss. But he moved with the weight of someone who had outlived everyone who'd ever underestimated him, and the room parted for him without anyone giving a signal.
He stopped in front of Maeve.
Ivan's hand dropped toward his waistband. Maeve touched his arm without looking at him, and Ivan went still. Not relaxed, but still. Waiting.
Mikhail looked at her. He looked at the scar above her scent gland, the raised tissue that told a story every alpha in this room understood. He looked at Mac, who was still asleep in Gregor's arms with the profound indifference of a baby who had not been informed he was at the center of a political coup.
Gregor lifted the blanket before he transferred Mac into Maeve's arms with the same reverent care he applied to everything with her. Maeve settled her son against her chest and rested her chin on his head.
Mikhail looked at me.
Then he spoke, low and fast, in Russian too quiet for the room to catch.
"You defied your father for love. You found her."
Ivan leaned close to Maeve and translated under his breath, his lips near her ear, and I watched her jaw tighten and hereyes go bright and her spine get even straighter, which I hadn't thought possible.
Mikhail turned to the room. He raised his glass.
"To the Pakhan."
The roar that followed shook the chandelier.
Glasses went up. Voices overlapped. Yuri stood frozen with the certificate still crushed in his hand, a man who had just watched an empire he'd spent years trying to steal slip away in the space of a single breath.
The vote didn't need to be cast. It was unanimous.
It was past two in the morning when the last SUV pulled down the driveway.
The staff had cleared the room. Glasses, cigar butts, and the debris of twelve powerful men's egos swept away by people who were paid very well not to have opinions about what they overheard.
The chandeliers had been dimmed. The long table was bare except for faint rings where vodka glasses had sweated into the wood.
Rain was falling against the windows, sliding down the glass in silver threads while the lawn disappeared into the dark. The house felt like it was exhaling after holding its breath all evening.
I should have been in the nursery.
I was in the library instead, sitting in the dark with a tumbler of whisky I hadn't touched, watching the embers die in the fireplace. The weight of it was settling now that the adrenaline had faded. Not the power. I carried the power for years, ever since my father got secretly sick and I started making decisions in his name. The weight was the permanence. There was no one above me now. No council to appeal to, no father to overrule me,no authority I could defer to when the choice was brutal and the outcome uncertain.
Just me. My pack. My son.
The door creaked.
I didn't turn. I knew the sound of her footsteps and the shift in the air when she entered a room, the faint caramel that preceded her wherever she went.
Maeve had changed out of the emerald dress into an oversized sweater and leggings. She curled into the leather armchair beside me, pulling her feet up under her, and stared at the embers.
We sat there for a long time. The grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Rain tapped the glass. The fire made small, settling sounds as the last of the wood gave up its shape.
I reached across the gap between the chairs.
She took my hand without looking at me. Her fingers were warm. Her pulse was steady. I held on and didn't say anything because I didn't have the words and she didn't seem to need them.
