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"And the only one who does—the only wildcard—is O’Rourke," I finish for him.

His gaze darkens.

"Tell me one more time," he says, voice low. "Were you or were you not involved with O’Rourke?"

I shake my head, answering honestly. "Of course not. I told you—the Irish wanted nothing to do with me. They used me as a contractor, but I was always kept at arm’s length." I give him a serious look. “And even if I were, you and I both know you’d risk the entireallianceif you did anything about that.”

His eyes narrow. “Worth it.”

I shake my head. "Matvei, you know The Undertaker’s reputation as well as I do."

He blows out a breath, shaking his head. "Like fuck I do. Doesn’t mean O’Rourke isn’t fucking obsessed with you.”

I give him an incredulous look. “O’Rourke? I don’t think so.”

He stares and mutters to himself, “She has no fucking idea…”

“What? How dangerous he is? Of course I do. I was there for years while?—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “How fucking gorgeousyouare. How any man gets one look at you and needs to have you.”

I stare at him, and just because I don’t know what to say, I reach for a ripe strawberry, but before I can take a bite?—

A spasm of pain shoots across my back, wrapping around my abdomen like barbed wire.

The fork clatters to the plate.

Matvei pales. "Are you okay?"

I grit my teeth, shaking my head, trying to push the tray off my lap.

I need to curl up again.

I need to?—

Matvei moves fast.

In one swift motion, he grabs the tray, sets it aside, and eases me onto my side.

His huge hand spans my abdomen, pressing flat across my belly. With his other hand, he massages my lower back, strong and firm, working over the knots of tension with slow, practiced strokes.

It feels so good.

So fucking good, as if his hands were meant to do this.

I breathe through it, feeling the contracting pain lessen little by little.

Over and over, he massages my back, whispering something soft in Russian, but I don’t quite catch it.

"There you go. Breathe," he murmurs.

I feel like I’m in labor, and he’s my doula.

And for the first time, a pang of grief hits me so hard I’m not prepared for it.

It slams into my chest, twisting something deep inside me, aching so fiercely that I struggle to breathe.

My throat tightens.