Page 83 of Nine Months to Bear

“Or it was an inside job. You know we hate nothing as much as a rat.”

“You aren’t sure?” I snap.

“They were clean kills. Professional. Nothing like Iakov’s usual mess. So it’s hard to say.”

I don’t like that. Iakov has never been known for subtlety. If he’s evolving, adapting… The thought is unsettling.

Taras must feel the same, because he leans back in his seat. “Tell me about what happened today.”

I rotate my glass in my hand and watch the amber liquid slosh around. “It was suspiciously amateur. Probably mercenaries. A message, not an assassination.” My mind replays the scene: the flash of gunmetal, Olivia’s startled gasp, my body moving on instinct to shield her before a single conscious thought could form.

“Could be Walsh,” Taras suggests. “Maybe she’s not just after Olivia’s business. Maybe she figured out what you’re really after with the clinic. Unless…” He tilts his head. “Unless that plan’s changed, too?”

“Walsh isn’t a concern.”

“And how the fuck do you know that?” Taras’s eyebrows shoot up as he reads the death sentence in my eyes. “Christ, Stef. Tell me you haven’t gone off-script already. We agreed?—”

Before I can answer, I hear a sound in the hallway. A gasp. I’m up before I know it, crossing the room in three strides, yanking open the heavy oak door.

And on the other side…

I fucking knew it.

Olivia stands frozen, eyes wide. Her pulse visibly jumps in her throat. A frightened bird trapped in a too-small cage.

How much did she hear?

Taras slides past us with a muttered, “Well, this oughta be fun,” leaving me alone with the woman who’s the center of my plans and could be the end of them.

It’s right now, in this moment, with her horrified eyes holding mine, that I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I’ve let her see too much. Hear too much. Know too much.

The question now is simple:

Do I pull her deeper into my darkness? Or shove her out into the light where she belongs?

36

OLIVIA

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

It’s unreasonable that Stefan’s floors are this cold. The marble floor is like ice against my bare feet as I tiptoe through the mansion. Sure, the blue-veined Calcutta marble is gorgeous, but when it costs me a frost-bitten pinky toe? No thanks.

The only reason I’m even barefoot in this mansion to begin with is because of him. I know for a fact I didn’t lose my shoes. No, one of his black-clad ninja sidekicks stole them to keep me here.

I do see the appeal of the logic. It’s hard to run away when you’re barefoot. Also when the only path out involves a half-mile long driveway lined with security cameras.

Escape is hopeless, so I should just go back to that ridiculous bedroom and snuggle beneath the silk sheets. Or test out the bathtub big enough for an orgy.

Goodness gracious, that tub.The bathroom has heated floors—what a genius concept—along with a crystal chandelier and bath salts from God’s personal stash. I hate how much I love it.

But muffled voices pull me forward, farther from the glorious tub and orgy dreams. As I reach the pretentious mahogany doors of what can only be Stefan’s study, Russian words shift into English.

The double doors aren’t completely closed—a sliver of light spills onto the floor. And through that crack seeps a name I know.

“Walsh isn’t a concern.” Stefan’s voice is ice-cold, final.