Page 92 of Scarlet Thorns

I sit in the silence she leaves behind, my cock still hard and my pulse still racing with what I just proposed. Three days until I find out if Igor Shiradze’s daughter will carry my child. Three days until I learn whether this impossible gamble pays off.

And I’m pretty sure the Universe is still laughing its ass off at me.

But for the first time since Galina and my son died, I have something to hope for. Something worth the risk of letting someone close enough to hurt me.

Even if that someone is the daughter of the man I murdered.

Even if she has no idea how deep the lies between us run.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Ilona

I can’t sleep.

I’ve been lying here for hours, staring at the ceiling of this impossibly luxurious guest suite while my mind churns through Osip’s proposition like a washing machine stuck on the spin cycle.

One million Euros.

A baby.

The chance to have everything I thought endometriosis had stolen from me.

What kind of universe does he live in?

In the normal world— the world I used to inhabit before financial desperation led me to Osip’s home— people don’t make offers like this. They don’t sit behind mahogany desks with the calm authority of kings and propose business arrangements that involve growing their children inside your body.

But Osip Sidorov doesn’t live in the normal world. That much became crystal clear the moment I stumbled into his secret room. The weapons, the cash, the toys that spoke of appetites I’m only beginning to understand— all of it painted a picture of a man who operates by rules I’ve never encountered.

Should I be scared?

Every rational brain cell I have left screamsyes. This is dangerous territory, uncharted waters that could swallow me whole without leaving a trace.

But somehow, I’m not afraid.

Not of him, anyway.

Maybe that makes me insane. Maybe the endorphins from last night’s earth-shattering sex have scrambled my brainbeyond repair. But when I think about Osip Sidorov— really think about him— all I feel is this strange certainty that I can trust him. That beneath all that controlled violence and wealth and secrecy, there’s something solid. Something that would never hurt me.

God, Ilona.

Listen to yourself.

The thought of having sex with him regularly— even if it’s just a “baby-making operation,” as my brain keeps cynically labeling it— has my girl parts doing a happy dance.

I press my palms against my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the vivid replays. His lips, his hands, his palm on the bare flesh of my ass. His magnificent cock— because, let’s face it, it is magnificent.

And now he wants me to carry his child.

The idea should terrify me. Should send me bolting back all the way to Boston with my tail between my legs. Instead, it makes something deep in my chest flutter with possibilities I don’t dare name.

Stop thinking about it!

You have three days to decide.

Use them wisely.

But my treacherous mind won’t cooperate. It keeps circling back to the heat in his eyes when he made the offer, the careful way he watched my reactions like they mattered more than he was letting on.