Page 37 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

The more she thought of the likely ways she could kill him, the more she realized he was too heavily protected and much too astute to be killed without some serious strategizing and help.

“Sarah? Where’s Mikhail?” Mira demanded as Sarah helped her brush her hair and style it into a long French braid that dangled all the way down her back.

“I saw him take a horse riding this morning. He seemed to have a lot on his mind,” Sarah said.

“I’ll bet he did,” Mira muttered.

Sarah’s frowning gaze met hers in the mirror. “This started out as a fake marriage—”

“It’s still a fake marriage,” Mira retorted.

“You seem a lot angrier at him than any fake wife has a right to be,” Sarah disagreed.

Mira rolled her eyes. Sara always had a way with words. She always seemed to have something to say in response to everything else.

“Can you just focus on my hair, Sarah? Thank you,” Mira said firmly. As soon as her hair was done, she shooed Sarah away and changed into a pair of white shorts, a metallic tank top, and white flat sandals.

As she went down the stairs to his library, she sternly lectured herself to be open to killing him by whatever means possible, including poisoning. The most important thing was his death and not the means.

When she reached the library, he was sitting there, staring off into the distance.

She crossed the room to his wine cabinet and poured herself a glass of soda water. She poured him a shot of one of his favorite whiskeys and tossed in a poisoned tablet that dissolved quickly as soon as it touched liquid. Then she sauntered over to where he was sitting, a small smile dancing about his lips, and held the glass out to him.

He stared at her for a heartbeat and she was almost afraid he had seen what she’d done. But he didn’t look suspicious, just pleasantly surprised.

He didn’t say anything, just took the proffered glass from her hand and lifted it to his lips. She couldn’t be sure whether he had drunk it or not, but since he had carried it to his lips, she supposed it was safe to think he had.

Mira stared at him in strained silence, waiting for him to hit the floor. Why did she feel this dread like a gaping hole deep inside of herself? Had she really done it? Had she really killed him? Why did she feel a yawning emptiness in the pit of her stomach at the thought of his beautiful eyes shutting forever in the sleep of death?

She shut her eyes briefly in dismay and when she opened it, he was holding out the empty glass to her. He smiled his thanks, and returned to working on his laptop.

Shakily, Mira disposed of the glasses and returned to her seat. She was beginning to perspire despite the cool air coming from the vents. She had never killed a person in her entire life and to poison someone now and then calmly sit around and wait for him to die…

She grabbed a book she had placed face down on the coffee table and lifted it to hide her face as she pretended to be reading.

Scenes from her first meeting with Mikhail started to flash before her eyes, and regret warred with the need for revenge inside of her. Maybe she should have done things differently. Maybe she shouldn’t have poisoned him just yet? Maybe—

Oh god, what if he died? She had seen people die so grotesquely and horribly from poison in the past.

“What are you reading?” Mikhail enquired in a suffocated voice, as though he were struggling not to laugh.

Mira glared at him, wondering why he was amused. The poison didn’t seem to be having any effect yet. “Why?”

“I’ve never seen anyone read upside down. Just wondering the kind of literature that required that sort of reading,” he laughed.

Her gaze shifted to her book. She did have it upside down. She blushed in mortification and righted the book.

Mikhail crossed the room to her, his gaze locked on hers as he gently pried the book from her fingers and laid it aside. “Can you tell me why you’re so bothered? Did something happen while I was away to get Sarah? Did anyone say anything to you?”

Her chin lifted even as she fought back tears. “Anything like what?”

He thrust his hands into his pockets, his gaze dark and brooding. “You should know I don’t like games, Mira. I know all the games and I’ve played them all. They bore me. If there’s something wrong, come right out and say it.”

She stared at him, feeling it on the very tip of her tongue to tell him about her mother and ask why he had killed her. But just then, Vlad popped open the door and peeked in.

“We’re under attack. It’s the Dostoevsky gang,” Vlad announced.

Immediately, Mikhail underwent a transformation right before her eyes. He went from laughing and teasing to cold and serious. He looked exactly how he’d looked the first night she saw him at the club, when she’d looked into his eyes and felt fear clutch at her heart. He was suddenly standing straighter, and he seemed more alert too.

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