Page 89 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
I let out a long, shaky breath. "I'm pregnant."
Andrey goes very still beside me. Then his hand tightens around mine, and when I glance at him, I see something bright and fierce in his expression. Happiness. Pure, unguarded happiness that makes my chest ache.
"Mariya." My name comes out rough, almost reverent. He cups my face with his free hand, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone. "We're having a baby."
I want to share in his joy, but all I feel is uncertainty twisting in my gut. "I don't know if I'm ready for this."
"You don't have to be ready right now." His voice is gentle in a way that only I ever get to hear. "We've got time."
"I've never even thought about having kids." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "My whole life has been running, hiding, and surviving. I don't know how to be a mother."
Andrey's gray eyes search mine, and I see understanding there. Not pity, just acceptance of where I am right now. "You don't have to decide everything today."
I nod, even though time feels like a luxury we've never had. With my father's secrets still unraveling around us and the unease with the other families, bringing a child into this mess feels reckless. Dangerous.
But the baby is already here, growing inside me, whether I'm ready or not.
Andrey pulls me against his chest, and I let myself sink into his warmth. His hand slides down to rest against my stomach, flat and protective, and warmth starts to fill the cold spots inside me.
"We should still go to the bed and breakfast," he says after a moment. "Whether we find another clue or not, we could use a break. We could make it a little vacation."
I pull back to look at him. "You think we'll find something there?"
"I think your father was careful about where he hid things. If he left a clue pointing to this place, there's a reason." His thumb traces circles against my stomach, the gesture unconscious andtender. "But even if we don't find anything, we deserve some time away from all this. Just you and me."
The idea of a vacation feels surreal. I've forgotten what it's like to just exist without constantly looking over my shoulder. But maybe Andrey's right. Maybe we need this.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Let's go."
The bed and breakfast is located in a small town that looks like it was pulled straight out of the 1950s. As we drive down Main Street, I press my face closer to the window, taking in details that feel almost too perfect to be real.
There's no trash on the roads or in the alleyways. Every lawn is freshly mowed and edged with precision. Flower boxes hang from windows, overflowing with bright blooms. Kids ride their bikes down the sidewalk, laughing and calling to each other without a care in the world.
It's nice. Unsettlingly nice.
"This place is weird," I mutter.
Andrey glances at me, his lips twitching with amusement. "Weird how?"
"Too clean. Too perfect." I gesture at a group of children playing hopscotch on a driveway. "Where are the broken windows? The graffiti? The general sense of urban decay?"
"Not everywhere is a war zone, Mariya."
"I know that." I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly defensive. "It's just… different."
Different and a little bit wonderful, if I'm being honest. The kind of place where people probably know their neighbors' names and leave their doors unlocked at night.
We pull up to the bed and breakfast, a charming Victorian house painted pale yellow with white trim. A wraparound porch holds rocking chairs and hanging baskets of ferns. It looks like something out of a magazine.
Andrey parks and comes around to open my door, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk up the front steps. The gesture is protective, possessive, and I lean into it by instinct, without conscious thought. It's natural and real.
Inside, the owner greets us with a warm smile and checks us into our room. She's an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes, the type who probably bakes cookies for guests and knows everyone's business. She doesn't ask questions about why we're here or where we're from, just hands over the key and tells us breakfast is served at eight.
Our room is on the second floor, decorated in soft blues and creams with a four-poster bed that dominates the space. Lace curtains filter the afternoon sunlight, and fresh flowers sit on the dresser. It's cozy and romantic, the kind of place couples come to celebrate anniversaries.
I set my bag down and move to the window, looking out over the quiet street below. My hand drifts to my stomach again, a habit I've already developed in the few hours since seeing those two pink lines.
Andrey comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. "What are you thinking?"
