Page 24 of Bride of the Bratva King (Blood & Bride #1)

Chapter twenty-two

The Stakes

A lexei

The first ultrasound appointment changes everything.

I've seen death in a thousand forms, faced down men who would kill me without hesitation, built an empire on violence and calculated risk. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepares me for the moment Dr. Petrov points to a tiny flicker on the monitor and says, "There's your baby's heartbeat."

The sound fills the examination room like thunder. Fast, strong, absolutely perfect. Evidence that the life Mila and I created together is thriving despite the chaos and violence that surrounded its conception.

"Everything looks excellent," Dr. Petrov continues, moving the ultrasound wand across Mila's gel-covered belly. "Normal development, strong heartbeat, no abnormalities that I can detect."

"The heart rate?" I ask, because I need details, need data, need confirmation that this miracle is really happening.

"One hundred fifty-eight beats per minute. Perfectly normal for eight weeks gestation."

Nine weeks. Our baby has been growing for eight weeks, developing from a cluster of cells into something with a heartbeat and tiny limbs and the beginning of a future that takes my breath away.

"When will we know the sex?" Mila asks from the examination table.

"Around eighteen to twenty weeks, if you want to find out. Some couples prefer to be surprised."

I look at Mila, and she looks at me, and we have one of those wordless conversations that married couples perfect over time.

"We want to know," I say finally.

"We want to plan," Mila adds with a smile.

Dr. Petrov nods approvingly. "Given the... unique circumstances of your lifestyle, advance planning is always wise. I'll have my office coordinate with your security team for future appointments."

The reminder of our reality—that my pregnant wife needs armed guards for medical visits—sends a familiar chill through me. Loving someone in my world means accepting that they'll always be a target, always be at risk, always need protection from people who want to hurt me through them.

But now it's not just Mila who needs protection. It's our child.

"Dr. Petrov," I say as he cleans the ultrasound gel from Mila's stomach, "what precautions should we take? Given the stress levels inherent in our... business?"

"Stress management is crucial during pregnancy. Regular exercise within safe parameters, adequate sleep, proper nutrition. Most importantly, Mrs. Morozov should avoid situations that could cause extreme emotional or physical stress."

"Define extreme."

"Anything that causes her heart rate to spike significantly or triggers the fight-or-flight response. High-stress confrontations, dangerous situations, anything that could cause trauma or injury."

I nod grimly. No more war councils where she's present. No more situations where she could be exposed to violence or threats. My brilliant, capable wife is going to hate being sidelined, but our baby's health comes first.

"I'll provide you with comprehensive guidelines," Dr. Petrov continues. "Diet recommendations, exercise limitations, warning signs to watch for. Given your resources, I'd also recommend hiring a full-time pregnancy nurse for the duration."

"Already arranged," I tell him. It's not exactly true—I'll have it arranged before we leave the building—but Dr. Petrov doesn't need to know that.

"Excellent. I'll want to see Mrs. Morozov every two weeks until the twentieth week, then weekly until delivery. More frequently if any complications arise."

Complications. The word makes my blood run cold.

"What kind of complications?" I ask.

"Mr. Morozov," Mila says gently, "every pregnancy has potential complications. That doesn't mean they'll happen."

"But they could happen."

"They could," Dr. Petrov confirms. "High blood pressure, gestational diabetes, preterm labor. But Mrs. Morozov is young, healthy, and has access to excellent medical care. The vast majority of pregnancies proceed without serious issues."

Vast majority. Not all. Which means there's a chance—however small—that something could go wrong with the most precious thing in my world.

The ride home is quiet, both of us processing the reality of what we've just seen and heard. Mila seems content, one hand resting on her still-flat stomach, probably imagining the tiny life growing inside her.

I'm calculating security protocols and emergency medical procedures.

"You're thinking too hard," she says as we turn through the estate gates.

"I'm thinking practically."

"You're thinking like a man who's convinced something terrible is going to happen."

"Something terrible could happen. Dr. Petrov said—"

"Dr. Petrov said complications are possible, not probable. There's a difference."

"In my world, possible and probable are the same thing."

She turns in her seat to face me, and I can see frustration building in her dark eyes.

"Alexei, you can't protect me from biology. You can't eliminate every risk or control every variable. This is pregnancy, not warfare."

"It feels like warfare."

"Why?"

"Because I could lose you. I could lose both of you. And there's nothing I can do to prevent it except hope and pray and trust in things I can't control."

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. I've never been good at powerlessness, never learned to cope with situations where money and violence and careful planning can't guarantee the outcome I want.

"You're not going to lose us," she says softly.

"You don't know that."

"I know that I'm healthy and strong and surrounded by the best medical care money can buy. I know that you love us enough to give us every advantage possible. And I know that our baby is wanted and planned for and already so loved it's probably getting spoiled in utero."

"Probably?"

"Definitely. You talked to my stomach for twenty minutes this morning while you thought I was asleep."

Heat floods my cheeks. "You heard that?"

"I heard you telling our baby about the nursery you're planning and the ponies you're going to buy and the Harvard education fund you've already started."

"The education fund is practical."

"The ponies are spoiling."

"Our child will have the best of everything."

"I know. That's one of the reasons I love you."

We're home now, pulling up to the main house where our future is taking shape. In seven months, this will be a place where children laugh and run through the hallways, where birthday parties happen and bedtime stories are read and all the normal, beautiful chaos of family life unfolds.

"Mila," I say as Boris opens my door, "I need you to understand something."

"What?"

"This changes everything for me. The calculations I make, the risks I'm willing to take, the way I approach business and security and every aspect of our lives. Having you made me careful. Having our baby makes me conservative."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm going to be overprotective to a degree that will probably drive you insane. I'm going to see threats in shadows and danger in routine activities. I'm going to want you wrapped in bubble wrap and surrounded by armed guards twenty-four hours a day."

"And I'm going to tell you to go to hell when you get ridiculous about it."

"Probably."

"Definitely."

"I can live with that. As long as you understand why I'm doing it."

"I understand. I don't have to like it, but I understand."

We head into the house, where Irina is waiting with herbal tea and the kind of eager attention that suggests she already knows our news. Word travels fast in the Morozov household, especially good news.

"Congratulations," she says warmly, embracing Mila with maternal affection. "A baby is exactly what this house needs."

"Thank you, Irina."

"I've already begun researching nutritional requirements and contacted several excellent pregnancy nurses. Also, the blue guest suite would make a perfect nursery—good natural light, close to your bedroom, easily secured."

I should have known Irina would already be three steps ahead of us. She's been managing this household for thirty years and has probably been hoping for grandchildren to spoil since the day I turned eighteen.

"We haven't even discussed nursery locations yet," Mila laughs.

"There's plenty of time for that," I say, but I'm already mentally mapping security upgrades for the blue suite. Reinforced windows, dedicated communication lines, direct access to the master bedroom...

"Alexei," Mila's voice cuts through my planning. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Building fortresses in your head."

"The blue suite needs security upgrades if it's going to house our baby."

"The blue suite needs paint and furniture and maybe some cheerful wallpaper. Security can come later."

"Security comes first."

"Happiness comes first. Security is just one component of that."

We're going to have this argument a lot over the next seven months, I realize. My need to protect versus her need for normalcy. My instinct to control versus her desire for natural experiences.

"Compromise?" I suggest.

"I'm listening."

"We plan the nursery together. You choose colors and furniture and decorations. I handle security and safety features."

"And you don't go overboard with the security."

"Define overboard."

"Motion sensors and bulletproof windows are fine. Armed guards standing outside the nursery door are not."

"What about one armed guard?"

"Alexei."

"Half an armed guard?"

"There's no such thing as half an armed guard."

"Then we'll compromise when we get there."

She shakes her head, but she's smiling. "You're impossible."

"I'm going to be a father. Apparently they're the same thing."

"Apparently."

The afternoon passes in a haze of planning and gentle domesticity.

We have lunch with Mila's parents, who are thrilled about becoming grandparents and immediately begin sharing stories about Mila as a baby.

Dmitri calls to offer congratulations and promise that the entire Bratva community will help protect our child.

By evening, the reality has settled over me like a warm blanket. I'm going to be a father. The woman I love is carrying my child, and in seven months our family will expand in the most perfect way possible.

"Come here," Mila says from our bed, where she's been reading pregnancy books for the past hour.

"What?"

"I want to show you something."

I cross the room and settle beside her, and she guides my hand to her stomach.

"Feel anything different?" she asks.

I press my palm flat against her belly, trying to detect any change in the body I know so well. "Maybe a little... firmer?"

"According to this book, our baby is about the size of a blueberry now. Still tiny, but growing every day."

"A blueberry," I repeat wonderingly.

"Soon it'll be the size of a lime, then a lemon, then an apple."

"From blueberry to apple in seven months."

"More or less."

I lean down and press a soft kiss to her stomach. "Hello again, little blueberry. Your mama and I saw you today, heard your heartbeat. You're perfect already."

"The baby can't hear you yet."

"Can't hurt to start early."

"No, it can't."

She sets aside her book and turns to face me, her dark eyes soft with love and contentment.

"Thank you," she says.

"For what?"

"For being excited about this instead of terrified. For wanting this baby as much as I do. For making me feel like we can do this, even in our complicated world."

"We can do this. We can do anything together."

"Even raise a child in the Bratva?"

"Especially raise a child in the Bratva. Our baby will grow up knowing they're loved and protected and valued. They'll have advantages most children never dream of."

"And responsibilities."

"When they're old enough to understand them. For now, they just need to grow and be healthy and let their parents spoil them completely."

"Starting now?"

"Starting now."

I kiss her then, soft and sweet and full of all the love and hope and excitement that our future holds. When we break apart, she's looking at me with heat in her eyes that has nothing to do with tenderness.

"Mila," I warn.

"What?"

"You're looking at me like you want something."

"I do want something."

"What?"

"You. I want you to make love to me like the woman who's carrying your child."

"We just saw the doctor. Shouldn't we wait, make sure—"

"Dr. Petrov said sex is perfectly safe during normal pregnancies. Are you telling me you don't want me?"

The question is ridiculous. I want her constantly, desperately, with a hunger that only seems to grow stronger as our relationship deepens.

"I want you," I admit. "I just want to be careful."

"Then be careful. Be gentle. Worship me like the woman who's going to give you everything you've ever wanted."

The request breaks the last of my resistance. I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands already moving to the soft cotton of her dress.

"Let me see you," I murmur against her lips.

She helps me undress her, and when she's naked beside me, I can see the subtle changes that pregnancy has already brought. Her breasts are fuller, more sensitive, her skin has a glow that makes her even more beautiful than before.

"Gorgeous," I whisper, trailing my mouth down her throat. "You're absolutely gorgeous."

"Even with all the changes coming?"

"Especially with the changes coming. You're going to be so beautiful pregnant, Mila. Round and glowing and completely mine."

"Yours," she agrees, arching beneath my touch.

I take my time with her, worshipping every inch of skin, paying special attention to her breasts that will soon nourish our child. When she moans and arches beneath me, I can feel the life growing inside her, the future we're building together.

"I need you," she whispers.

"I need you too."

When I enter her, it's with reverent care, mindful of the precious cargo she's carrying. She's warm and wet and absolutely perfect around me, and the knowledge that we're connected in every possible way makes the pleasure almost overwhelming.

"I love you," I tell her as we move together. "I love you and our baby and the life we're building."

"I love you too. So much."

"Both of you are mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to love for the rest of my life."

"Always."

The climax builds slowly, sweetly, and when she comes apart beneath me, I follow her over the edge with her name on my lips and our future bright in my mind.

Afterward, we lie tangled together in contentment, my hand resting on her stomach where our child grows.

"Seven months," she says dreamily.

"Seven months until everything changes."

"Everything's already changed."

"True. But in seven months, we get to meet the person who changed it."

"I can't wait."

"Neither can I."

And it's true. For the first time in my adult life, I'm looking forward to something more than I'm afraid of it. Our child represents hope and love and a future that's bigger than just the two of us.

Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

All three of us.