Page 48 of Toxic Salvation (Krayev Bratva #2)

VESPER

Christmas arrives every year whether I want it to or not.

The trees and eggnog. Carol singers and gingerbread houses. Cheesy pop songs and manufactured holiday cheer that I’ve spent years avoiding.

When December rolls around and everyone else gets merry, I turn into the neighborhood Grinch. I’m the cranky woman yelling at carolers to keep it down because their joy is ruining my planned night of solitude and Chinese takeout.

It wasn’t always this way. We celebrated when I was younger; Dad made sure of it.

He’d drag home a tree that was too big for our living room and insist we needed twice as many lights as any reasonable person would use.

Mom would bake enough cookies to feed a small army, and Waylen and I would fight over who got to put the star on top.

Then Dad died, and Christmas became just another reminder of what we’d lost.

So I started working extra shifts. Volunteering for holiday coverage. Coming down with mysterious illnesses that required quarantine. Anything to avoid sitting around a table pretending we were still a complete family.

I thought I’d always feel that way.

But now, I have a nine-year-old who deserves better and a baby on the way who’s going to need traditions. I want Luka to have the Christmas memories I used to have before grief turned me bitter. I want our son to grow up knowing what it feels like to wake up excited on Christmas morning.

So, I’m creeping downstairs at 5:00 A.M., leaving Kovan tangled in our sheets.

It takes considerable willpower not to wake him up for a different kind of Christmas morning activity. The man looks obscene even while unconscious. Abs tangled in white sheets, tousled hair, jawline chiseled by Michelangelo himself.

But I have plans. Little gifts to stuff into the stockings Luka and I hung last night. A special breakfast to prepare. Christmas music to cue up before anyone else wakes.

This feels like my first real Christmas in years.

I’m halfway down the stairs when a sharp pain stabs through my belly. It lasts maybe three seconds, then disappears.

“Shit,” I mutter, pausing to breathe through the aftershock.

That can only be one thing.

The next contraction hits while I’m pulling flour and eggs from the kitchen cabinets.

“Dammit.”

What are the odds? The woman who spent years avoiding Christmas is about to give birth on December twenty-fifth. If fate has a sense of humor, this proves it.

But the contractions are still far apart, which means I have time. Good, because I’m determined to give Luka a perfect Christmas morning. One that’s entirely about him.

I’m measuring flour when shadows appear in the kitchen doorway. Mom shuffles in first, followed by Waylen, both of them looking curious about my early morning baking project.

“What are you two doing up so early?” I ask.

Waylen raises an eyebrow. “I could ask you the same thing. Planning to poison us for Christmas?”

I wave the printed recipe at him. “I have step-by-step instructions. Mom dictated every detail last week.”

“Unnecessary,” Mom says, grabbing an apron. “I’m right here to pitch in.”

She joins me at the counter, and for a moment, her smile makes her look less fragile. It’s easy to forget about her cancer when she seems so radiant and alive.

“There was a time when I thought this recipe would die with me,” she laughs.

“It still might,” Waylen says. “Let’s be honest—Vesper has a better chance of going into labor today than making edible cinnamon rolls.”

My face flushes, but Mom is already swatting Waylen with a dish towel. “Stop it. She has a whole week left. We’re having a New Year’s baby.”

I smile and keep my mouth shut. No point in mentioning that my New Year’s baby seems eager to make his Christmas debut.

The three of us work together, mixing and rolling dough while Christmas music plays in the background. The kitchen fills with the scents of butter, sugar, and cinnamon. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with my family.

By seven o’clock, the cinnamon rolls are in the oven, and I’m thinking about all the holidays I missed. How many moments did I choose to skip because I was too busy nursing my grief?

“I owe you both an apology,” I say out of nowhere, “for how I’ve been these past few years. Especially during Christmas. I know I’ve been a complete?—”

“Bitch?” Waylen offers.

“I was going to say ‘Scrooge,’ but if the shoe fits, I guess.”

Mom hits Waylen with the towel again, then shuffles over to cup my hand. “Sweetheart, we understood. Christmas was hard for all of us after your father died. He was the heart of our holidays. How could we just keep doing all those things he loved when he wasn’t there to do them with us?”

I bury my face in her shoulder. “God. How did you put up with me?”

“Easy.” Waylen shrugs. “You never showed up to anything, so I didn’t have the satisfaction of yelling at you.”

I laugh and pull him into a hug. “You can yell at me now if you want.”

“I would never yell at a pregnant woman. Maybe after you push out the kid.”

Before I can respond, the sound of small feet pattering down the hallway reaches us. Luka slides into the kitchen wearing snowman pajamas and the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.

“Merry Christmas!” he shouts, throwing his arms up.

He hugs Mom first, then Waylen, then wraps his arms around my belly and whispers, “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

The title still makes my chest warm every time he uses it.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

When I look up, Kovan is leaning against the doorframe, watching us, face soft and dreamy.

Luka rushes off to find Pavel and Osip while I walk into Kovan’s arms. He kisses me thoroughly enough that Waylen starts clearing his throat dramatically.

“I think we’re making my brother uncomfortable,” I murmur against Kovan’s mouth.

“He’s a big boy. He can handle it.” Kovan grins wickedly. “I plan on kissing you exactly that way several more times today. It is Christmas, after all. And you’re the one present I can’t wait to unwrap.”

I step back just as another contraction starts building. I can’t hide labor pains when I’m pressed against him, and I’m not ready to turn our Christmas morning into a medical emergency. Not yet.

I just want this happiness to last a little bit longer.

Luka drags us all into the living room. The tree is practically buried under presents. We all sit on the carpet—except Mom, who takes the armchair—and start unwrapping gift after gift while torn paper accumulates around us.

I was so focused on finding perfect gifts for everyone that I forgot Christmas is about giving and receiving.

Pavel hands me a beautifully wrapped box with a shy smile.

Osip’s grin is pure mischief when he presents his gift to me.

And Kovan’s expression is downright sinful as he watches me unwrap his.

Pavel’s gift is an elegant watch. Kovan gives me diamond earrings. And Osip—God help him—gives me red lingerie that makes Kovan’s face turn scarlet.

Kovan chases Osip out of the room, threatening him with the didgeridoo Pavel gave him. Waylen and Pavel follow with their phones out, eager to document the chaos.

But Luka stays with me, clutching the star encyclopedia I bought him. I keep fingering the locket around my neck—his gift to me.

“Thank you for this,” I tell him, touching the small, oval pendant. It has his picture on one side.

“I left the other side empty,” he explains. “When the baby’s born, you can add his picture.”

“You thought of this yourself?”

He nods proudly. “Papa helped me buy it, but the idea was mine.”

“It’s my favorite gift ever.”

His gray eyes go wide. “Really? Even better than the diamonds?”

“Even better than the diamonds.”

He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Do you think the baby will like me?”

“Are you kidding? He’s going to love you. You’re going to be the best big brother.”

“I can’t wait to meet him.”

Another contraction starts as I hug him, and I hide my smile. It almost feels like the baby is responding: I can’t wait to meet you, too.

I’ve been secretly timing the pains. They’re getting closer together, but I still have a little while before I need to worry Kovan with the news. We have Christmas dinner to get through first.

I manage to make it all the way to the dining room before a contraction hits hard enough to double me over. I grab the edge of my chair, breathing through the pain.

Everyone freezes.

“Are you okay?” Osip asks, reaching for me.

“Get your hands off my woman,” Kovan growls, shoving Osip aside. “After that gift you gave her, you’re lucky you still have hands.”

“Hey, that gift was as much for you as it was for Vesper,” Osip says, completely unrepentant.

Kovan takes Osip’s place. His palm is warm on my back. “You okay?”

“Honey?” Mom calls from across the table. “Was that what I think it was?”

“What do you think it was?” Osip asks.

I turn to him with a sheepish grin. “I might be in labor.”

“What?!” Kovan snarls in my ear. “Since when?”

“Contractions started this morning. They’re getting closer together, but I still have time. We can sit down and have?—”

“Osip, Pavel,” Kovan barks, “bring the car around. We’re going to the hospital.”

“It’s too early, Kovan!”

He ignores me completely. “Let’s go. There’s no time to waste.”

I sigh. This isn’t worth fighting about. I hold my arms out to Luka, and he runs into them.

“It’s showtime,” he whispers.

I laugh and kiss his forehead. “It’s showtime, baby.”

I’m about to make the rounds and say goodbye to everyone when Kovan literally sweeps me off my feet.

“Kovan! What are you doing?”

“You’re in labor!” His eyes are wild with panic. “There’s no time for a goodbye tour. We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

“I can walk!”

“No. I’m carrying you.”

I decide not to argue. I wrap my arms around his neck and wave goodbye to everyone else over his shoulder.

“Merry Christmas!” I call out as he carries me toward the door.

Showtime, indeed.