Page 125 of The Wrong Brother

The sincerity there nearly undoes me. For a moment, I’m concerned by how easily I accept that answer. He’s aPakhan,after all, running a small empire in Santa Barbara that trades in escort services and smuggled goods.

He held me hostage. Made me sign a contract. Ruslan Smirnov gets what he wants.

So would he really step back and let us go that easily?

The idea of holding power over that kind of man—a man who crossed state lines for revenge and somehow ended up talking about parenthood instead—is dizzying and delicious at the same time.

My gaze drops to my hands because if I look at him right now, I might say something reckless. Something honest.

The truth is that the baby isn’t the only reason I’m hesitating. I’m already tied to Rus in ways that have nothing to do with this pregnancy.

I bite the inside of my lip and turn back toward the window before the words can escape.

The most terrifying part of this isn’t wondering whether I want this child. It’s realizing that I’m pretty sure I want him, too.

Chapter 33

Ruslan

The cabin has settledinto a rhythm. That is perhaps the most dangerous part of all this.

A week ago, I was attending political functions, threatening my half-brother, and preparing to destroy a man’s career. Now I spend my mornings splitting wood, my afternoons walking mountain trails, and my evenings arguing with Emma about the correct way to build a fire.

She is wrong, naturally. Unfortunately, she remains convinced otherwise.

The first time I caught her arranging kindling, I tried to offer advice. Ten minutes later, we were standing in front of a smoking woodstove debating airflow like opposing attorneys.

The fire eventually started, but I’m not willing to admit she might have had a part in that success.

The memory almost makes me smile. It’sthispart of being with her, when her sassy, hard-ass side comes out, that something in me gravitates toward her like a moon toward a planet.

This morning, the newspaper resting in my lap ruins the mood. We’ve been in West River, or just outside of it, for a total of six days.

I sink deeper into the worn armchair beside the cabin window and flip to the next page. The paper itself is local, but the story has been syndicated elsewhere.

Apparently, my return to Colorado remains excellent entertainment, despite the fact that we’re not in Denver anymore. The headline is irritating:

MYSTERY WOMAN CAPTURES SMIRNOV HEART—AND WALLET?

Creative. Something in me cringes at the idea of the smug doctor in West River seeing this.

Beneath the headline is a photograph of Emma and me back in Denver, simply walking on the street. She looks tired and annoyed, which somehow makes me even angrier, because I’ve been wasting all this time making her not happy.

I toss the paper onto the growing pile beside the chair.

There are six others beneath it.

Every morning, one of my people in Denver collects whatever garbage has been printed and sends photographs directly to my phone. Physical copies arrive the next day through more discreet channels.

At first, I thought it useful—knowing what was happening, if anyone noticed we were gone. Now it feels like torture.

I pick up my phone and scroll through another article. This one is worse.

Former Politician’s Ex Linked to Fashion Mogul.

A second photograph accompanies it. Emma standing beside me outside the museum gala. The article speculates about her motives, her intelligence, and her background. They haven’t been able to find much on her, which clinches what I already know of her past.

I just wish she’d tell me herself. It feels like the last bridge keeping us apart.