Page 25 of Desperate Games

She comes closer, her voice softer now.

“Look, Andrea, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you need a place to hide, or stay, or cry, or scream, I’ve got you. You know that, right?”

Something tightens in my chest. Because I do know that.

This family? They drive me absolutely insane.

But they’d also commit actual, real-life, punishable-by-prison war crimes for me, no questions asked.

Which is both comforting and terrifying depending on the day.

“Thanks,” I whisper, blinking too fast and hating myself for it. “I just, I thought maybe something might’ve come of it. And now I don’t know.”

Clementine tilts her head. Her face does that gentle therapist thing, all soft lines and concern. “Of what?”

I hesitate. Swallow. Then mutter, “Shit. Okay, so I’m thirty-two. An adult. And well, I want to have a kid. And I kinda sorta spent the night with Remy.”

Her gasp is so loud I almost slap a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my GOD! I knew it!”

“Shhh! I don’t need the whole Clan to know I rode the human embodiment of a sex dream like a stolen Vespa,” I hiss, eyes darting around the kitchen.

Too late.

Here come more cousins, strutting in like backup singers sensing the crescendo.

“You two look like you’re up to something. Soooo, what’s doing?” Lucy asks, pausing mid-sip of what I think is iced tea, but could be one of those exotic fruit concoctions Balor is always making for her.

“Andrea has a secret man,” Clementine immediately blurts.

Narc. I shove her arm playfully.

“Seriously?” Lucy’s face lights up.

“Oh my God.” Michaela’s already grabbing a throw pillow like she’s preparing for a juicy telenovela reveal.

“SHHH!” I hiss again, wild-eyed. “For the love of all that is holy, can we not announce my sex life during cocktail hour?”

“Too late,” Leanna says, sliding onto the counter with a grin. “This train has left the station.”

“Let’s go into the nursing room,” Clementine declares, grabbing my hand and marching me off like a naughty toddler.

Behind us, a whole parade of estrogen follows. I glance back to see the guys still manning the grill-slash-daycare area and our mothers holding court near the wine bar like a pack of mafia dons.

Inside the nursery—aka the peaceful, pastel-decorated sanctuary Connor designed for his missus, the lucky heifer—I’m immediately the center of a semicircle of judgment, curiosity, and love.

So, I do what any panicked Volkov would do in my position.

I spill my entire fucking guts.

I tell them about Remy.

The heat. The passion.

The way he kissed me like I was something holy and untouchable.

The way he made me come so hard it hurt.