Page 103 of The Wrong Brother

“Out.”

The cleaners assigned to our suite, who often operate in the background unnoticed, stiffen at the tone of my voice. The two women glance at each other and move toward the door quickly. Emma has her head ducked down, the bag still tucked against her side, and a sense of foreboding ripples through me.

Whatever happened this morning is not what I thought. She wasn’t running, but something is still very wrong.

Once we’re alone, she wipes at her eyes angrily, as if she’s offended by the existence of her own tears. “I’m fine,” she bites out, her voice rough.

“What happened?” I ask for what feels like the fifth time. This is the first time I’ve said it aloud; it’s only been an echoing worry up to now.

“Nothing.”

“That is obviously a lie.”

She shoots me a glare. “Maybe I don’t want to talk about it.”

My patience, already hanging by a thread, frays further.

“Two hours,” I growl, pacing toward her and getting the desired result. She slips around me, further into the suite, arms crossed as she tucks into the living room. “Two hours of imagining yougetting kidnapped, accidents, Andrei retaliating, and every other nightmare scenario my brain could invent. Do you know the things I’ve seen, Emma? And for two hours, I’ve been imagining you in every single one of those scenarios.”

Tears tremble at her lashes, finally spilling down her cheeks. But this woman, myl’vyonak, tips her chin upwards in defiance.

“If you don’t tell me what happened, I’m going to assume that someone needs to die.”

The laugh that she laughs is bitter and quick. She claps a hand to her mouth, smudging the tears and the emotions playing across her face.

“What is in the bag?”

She shakes her head.

“Enough, Emma. You need to tell me what’s going on. You can’t disappear like that.”

“No.” Something about the panic in her voice catches my attention. There’s a surface layer of defensiveness, but underneath that—fear.

The realization only makes me more determined.

She still doesn’t know that I know that she’s stood up to armed criminals, entire syndicates, and me. Her face has gone pale. Her hands are trembling. Whatever is in that bag matters.

A lot.

“Emma.”

“Rus, please.”

The plea stops me for half a second. Then she tries to move past me. Mistake.

I catch the handles before she can stop me. Her eyes widen.

“Ruslan.”

Too late. The bag comes free. Emma makes a frustrated sound somewhere between a curse and a groan as I pull it away from her.

It’s a small pharmacy bag. My brow furrows. Then I pull out the first box.

Both of us go still. A pregnancy test.

Slowly, I reach back into the bag.

Another.