Page 4 of Crystal Veil (Rostov Bratva #2)
ELENA
The ocean sings to me every morning, but the melody doesn't bring peace.
It's been two days since Renat moved me to this secluded house perched on the edge of the Atlantic.
Two days of watching the horizon stretch endlessly before me, wondering if this beautiful prison would become my permanent home.
From the outside, it appears to be something from a luxury travel magazine.
Sleek white walls that gleam under the morning sun, towering windows that overlook the turquoise water, and balconies that glow beneath the sun's golden kiss.
Modern architecture blends seamlessly with the natural cliff face, creating an illusion of floating above the waves.
But to me, it feels like a glass cage. Beautiful. Isolated. Silent.
I stand barefoot on the veranda, my toes curling against the cool stone tiles as the morning breeze lifts strands of my hair.
The wind carries the scent of salt and seaweed.
I hug Renat's robe tighter around my body, the fabric still holding traces of his cologne.
Waves crash against the rocky bluff below, wild and relentless.
A reflection of how I feel. Each wave pounds against the cliff with such force I can feel the vibration through the stone beneath my feet.
The house sits on a promontory that juts into the Atlantic like a defiant finger.
On a clear day, I can see fishing boats in the distance, their white sails catching the light as they navigate the deeper waters.
Today, the sky is overcast, clouds heavy with the promise of rain.
The water below churns restlessly, changing from turquoise to steel gray as shadows move across its surface.
From behind, I hear the low hum of Renat's security team moving through the property, their presence constant but distant.
They're ghosts with Rolexes, stationed at the gate, along the path to the beach, and inside the house at night.
Always watching and protecting. I've learned their routines over the past two days.
The tall one with the scar on his cheek walks the perimeter every hour.
The younger one with kind eyes always tips his head when he sees me, a gesture of respect that makes me feel less like a prisoner.
But respect doesn't change what this is. It’s suffocating.
I press my palm flat against my stomach, trying to find comfort in the warmth of my own body.
The gesture has become habitual and unconscious.
A flutter stirs beneath the surface. Not movement exactly, just a strange awareness.
A whisper of life that's still too small to show but loud enough to steal my breath.
The realization hits me fresh each time, like walking into a wall I forgot was there.
I'm carrying Renat's child. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it fills me with wonder ─ or maybe dread.
The nausea hasn't gone away. If anything, it's worse.
My stomach churns at odd hours, rebellion striking without warning.
Even the scent of the ocean, which used to calm me, now makes my throat tighten.
The salt air that once felt like freedom now carries undertones that make me queasy.
Yesterday, the chef prepared fresh fish for lunch, something that would usually make my mouth water.
Instead, I had to excuse myself, rushing to the bathroom with my hand clamped over my mouth.
But I haven't mentioned any of this to Renat.
What if I voice it aloud, and everything changes?
What if he decides I'm more a liability than an asset?
The thought makes my chest tight. I've seen what happens to people who become inconvenient in Renat's world. They disappear. Not always violently, but they disappear, nonetheless. Relocated. Forgotten. Would carrying his child protect me from that fate or make me more dangerous to keep around?
I shake my head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts.
The wind picks up, sending my hair whipping around my face.
I gather it with one hand, holding it back as I stare out at the churning water.
Somewhere out there is the life I left behind.
My apartment with its tiny kitchen and view of the neighbor's brick wall.
My job at the newspaper, with its controlled chaos of chasing breaking stories and uncovering hidden truths.
My co-workers, wondering where I vanished without explanation.
Everything feels like someone else's memories now.
The glass door behind me slides open with a soft whoosh.
The sound makes me tense, my shoulders pulling tight.
I don't need to turn to know it's him. Renat's presence fills any space he enters, commanding attention even when he tries to be subtle.
His footsteps are lighter than those of his men and more controlled. Predatory in their precision.
“Elena,” Renat murmurs.
I glance over my shoulder meeting his dark eyes.
There's something sharper about his expression today, more intense than usual.
His suit jacket hangs over one arm, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and marked with tattoos.
He looks less like a mafia boss and more like a man with too many thoughts in his head and not enough time to sort them out.
His hair is mussed as if he's been running his hands through it, and dark circles shadow his eyes.
He studies me carefully, the way he does when he's trying to pull truth from silence. It's a look I've grown familiar with, one that makes me feel exposed even when I'm fully clothed.
“You didn't touch your breakfast,” he observes, stepping closer.
I look away, focusing on a seagull that's landed on the railing. “Wasn't hungry.”
He approaches slowly. Each step echoes against the stone, deliberate and patient. “You haven't eaten properly in days. The chef is starting to think he's personally offended you.”
The chef is a kind man named Marcel who came from France specifically to work for Renat.
He takes pride in his work, crafting meals that rival those found in five-star restaurants.
The waste of his efforts makes me feel guilty, but I can't force food down when my stomach rebels against almost everything I eat.
I manage a faint smile. “He hasn't.”
Renat stops beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as he turns his gaze out to the ocean.
His warmth seeps through the silk of his robe, reminding me that I'm wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed, and living under his protection.
For a moment, we're quiet together. Just breathing the same air.
The wind carries his scent to me, igniting a part of me I didn't know existed before him.
But the peace doesn't last. It never does with us.
“You're pale,” he mentions, more softly now. His voice holds concern but also suspicion. “You flinched when I brought you coffee yesterday. You've been avoiding me, Elena.”
The accusation lingers between us like a challenge. I stiffen, my grip tightening on the robe. “I'm not avoiding you.”
“You are.” His tone hardens slightly, taking on the edge that makes grown men tremble. “You walk the beach alone at night. You keep your phone close but never call anyone. And you won't look me in the eye for longer than a few seconds.”
Each observation cuts straight through me because they're all true. I have been walking the beach at night, unable to sleep, pacing the shoreline like a restless ghost searching for peace. My phone stays charged, but who would I even call? What would I say? That I’m pregnant with a Russian mafia boss’s child and hiding out in his oceanfront fortress? Amelia already knows.
I blink against the wind, the salt air stinging my eyes. “You brought me here for protection, didn't you? I'm safe. That should be enough.”
“It's not.” His voice drops lower now, threaded with tension that quickens my pulse. “Safety without trust is just another form of prison. And I refuse to lock you away, Elena. But you have to talk to me.”
I feel his hand graze mine. Gentle and testing, like if he touches me too firmly, I'll shatter into pieces the wind will carry away. His fingers are warm against my cold skin, calloused from violence but tender at this moment.
The touch undoes something inside me. All the fear and uncertainty I've been carrying alone suddenly feels too heavy to bear. I turn to face him fully, my throat tightening with each word before I speak them. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can see it through the thin silk.
“I didn't want to tell you like this,” I whisper, my voice lost beneath the wind. “I wanted more time.”
He remains silent. Patient in the way predators are patient before they strike. But there's a hint of hope in his stillness. Or maybe it’s fear that mirrors my own.
My heart pounds so loudly I swear he can hear it. The words feel too big for my mouth, too dangerous to release into the world. But they've been building pressure inside me for days, and I can't hold them back anymore.
“I'm…I'm pregnant.”
A pause stretches between us. Then another. I watch the world fall away from his expression like someone pulling the earth out from under him. His face goes through a series of micro-expressions that shift from shock to disbelief and then to wonder. His hand drops from mine.
“Pregnant.” He repeats the word as if it doesn't make sense in his mouth, as if he's testing how it sounds.
“I didn't plan it,” I rush on, my voice unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. “I didn't know. And when I found out…everything happened so fast. The hospital, Bennato's men, the move here. I didn't know how to tell you.”