Page 95 of Scarlet Thorns

I wanted to jump his bones so badly it physically hurt. Wanted to climb into that bed and wake him up with my mouth on his cock, wanted to feel him come alive beneath my hands and forget whatever nightmares were chasing him.

The intensity of my need should scare me. Instead, it clarifies something I’ve been trying to ignore since he made his impossible offer.

I don’t want his money. Don’t want a business arrangement or a professional relationship or whatever clinical terms he used to describe growing his child.

I want him.

All of him.

The dangerous parts and the gentle parts and everything in between.

And all of that is just plain nuts.

“Fresh air,”I remind myself.“That’s why you got up in the first place.”

But as I make my way downstairs and toward the garden doors, I can’t shake the image of Osip naked in moonlight, saying my name like I might be the answer to prayers he’s afraid to voice.

Three days to decide.

Suddenly, that feels like both forever and nowhere near enough time.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Ilona

The morning sun filters through the garden’s carefully manicured trees as I sit on a stone bench, cradling a cup of chamomile tea between my palms.

The warmth seeps through the ceramic, but it does nothing to calm the storm of thoughts churning in my mind. I keep replaying last night— Osip’s tortured cries, the way his body convulsed with torment in sleep.

Galina… save her… our child!

The anguish in his voice was so raw it made my heart hurt.

What could have happened to cause such vivid nightmares? I’m certain he doesn’t remember— he was too deep in sleep, lost in whatever hell his subconscious dragged him through. But the woman’s name haunts me.

Galina.

I’m almost positive it’s the pregnant woman from the photograph beside his bed. The serene beauty with her hand protectively over her belly.

Where is she now? And more importantly— where is their child?

The jealousy that spikes through me is irrational and unwelcome. I have no claim on Osip, no right to feel territorial about women from his past. But the emotion claws at my insides anyway, sharp and possessive in ways that should scare me.

If Galina is still in his life, why did he ask me to be a surrogate? Me, of all people— a broke waitress with reproductive issues that make pregnancy complicated. He could have anyone. Literally anyone. Why pick someone whose body might betray the very thing he’s paying for?

Maybe it’s the visceral pull between us. The undeniable attraction between us, the way my body responds to his presence like it recognizes something essential. Maybe he feels it too, this magnetic force that defies logic and self-preservation.

My head is still reeling from his offer. One million Euros. The chance to carry his child. Financial security for life.

I must admit, as strange as it is, it’s tempting. More than tempting— it’s a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman.

It would solve all my financial problems in one stroke. No more counting euros for groceries, no more sleepless nights wondering how I’ll make enough for rent. And I would get to have sex with him— regularly, intimately, with purpose beyond mere pleasure. The thought sends heat spiraling through me despite the morning chill.

If he pays for fertility treatments, I could become a mother. Something I’d given up hope on after the endometriosis diagnosis, something that felt like a dream crushed before it could fully form. I could never afford the procedures on my own— the medications, the monitoring, the specialized care required to give my damaged reproductive system a fighting chance. And that’s if I ever even found a man willing to put up with all of that in the first place.

And then there’s Mom. Her financial struggles, the weight of Dad’s mysterious debts crushing her spirit day by day. I could help her. Could hire that private investigator she mentioned, finally get answers about what really happened to him.

This might be my only chance to become a mother.