Page 44 of Sinful Union

I don’t want Ana to grow up the same way.

I almost voice my thought out loud, right then and there. I nearly slip up, telling him about my best-kept secret. Thankfully, I catch myself at the last moment.

Pavel’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow, like he’s picking apart my words, and examining the weight of them. I look away, my throat tightening. I can feel Pavel’s eyes on me, studying me. I worry that he sees right through my lies, that he knows I’m hiding something. Would I be able to keep the secret if he were to outright ask what was on my mind?

I’m not sure.

He checks his watch. “Shit. I gotta run. Got a meeting to get to.”

He comes over to me, taking my hands in his own. His touch soothes me in just the right way.

I look down, unable to meet his eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve been able to keep myself together so well these last few weeks. But at that moment, my hands in his, I’m on the verge of breaking.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want me to order you some Belov’s?”

That gets a small smile out of me. “I’m sure; there are potatoes and onions here. Might do me some good to cook for myself for once.”

He places his hand beneath my chin, tilting it up. I instantly get lost in those eyes, those gorgeous, sparkling blue eyes. The eyes of a killer. Something I too often forget.

“I’ll be back soon.” He kisses me quickly, then leaves. I listen to his footsteps going down the stairs, the chime of the elevator seconds later. Then just like that, he’s gone.

The moment Pavel leaves, I want him back, want my hands in his again. I want him to hold me, to tell me everything is going to be alright. A part of me hates the way I need him, but another part wants to give in every time.

I shove the thoughts aside, the grumbling of my stomach propelling me forward. I make my way to the kitchen and pour myself a cup of tea. Next, I pull a few golden potatoes from the pantry. Grabbing a peeler, I work quickly, stripping them of their rough skins, letting the thin curls fall into the sink. Once they’re smooth, I rinse them off, then take my knife and begin dicing them into small cubes, each piece uniform in size.

I grab a large yellow onion from the counter, slicing off the ends before peeling away the papery skin. As soon as I cut into it, the sharp, sweet scent hits me, causing my eyes to water slightly. I halve it, then slice it thin, letting the delicate ribbons fall onto the cutting board.

I then move to the stove, setting a heavy cast-iron skillet over medium heat. I drop a generous pat of butter in the pan. It sizzles instantly when it hits the surface, melting into a golden pool. The moment it begins to foam, I toss in the onions, stirring them gently with a wooden spoon, watching as they turn translucent, their edges beginning to caramelize.

The smell is intoxicating. Warm, rich, and familiar. It takes me back to Belov’s, a cozy little Russian restaurant tucked into a quiet corner of the East Village. We used to go there as kids. Vlad, Piotr, and me would be crammed into one of the corner booths, while our parents lingered over tea and conversation with friends and family. It was one of the few places where we weren’t expected to sit and be quiet, where we were allowed to just be children. The owners knew us by name, and our father, always generous, let us order whatever we wanted.

For me, it was always the potatoes and onions: crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, perfectly seasoned with salt and black pepper, the onions cooked just right. I’d devour them as soon as they were set in front of me, burning my tongue in my impatience, while Piotr and Vlad stole bites from my dish, laughing as I swatted their hands away. I hadn’t been back for years.

Standing here, cooking this meal for myself, the memories cling to me as thickly as the scent of butter and onions filling the kitchen.

Once the onions soften, I add the potatoes, spreading them in an even layer. They hit the hot butter, causing an immediate sizzle that fills the quiet space around me. It’s perfect; exactly what I wanted.

I grab a plate, slide a generous serving onto it, then sink into a chair at the kitchen table.My recollection from this morning while lying in bed slams into me again, so vivid and sharp, it almost knocks the air from my lungs.

I was pregnant with Ana the last time I craved this dish. Not just craved—obsessed over it. For weeks, all I wanted was fried potatoes and onions. Morning, noon, and night.

My fork stills, hovering near my lips. My stomach tightens. It’s simply a coincidence. It has to be. But my hands are already shaking as I set the fork down. My brain scrambles to do the math. Pavel and I have been married almost five weeks. If I got pregnant the night of our wedding…

Oh, dear God, that’s enough time.

A rush of heat surges through me, my heart pounding so fast it makes me lightheaded. I stare down at the plate, my stomach twisting. The food that smelled so heavenly just moments ago now feels impossible to eat.

I press a hand to my abdomen, swallowing hard. I need to be sure. I press my other hand flat against the cool surface of the kitchen table, my breath coming in shallow, uneven waves. If I’m pregnant, I’m carrying Pavel’ssecondchild. He still doesn’t know he has a first.

The thought leaves me dizzy. This marriage—this mess we were thrown into—was never meant to be real. It was a political move, a necessary evil, a means to an end, but now? Now, it’s become something else. Something definitely real. And the most terrifying part is that I want it to be.

I trust Pavel more than I ever expected to, more than I probably should. I’ve been watching him, studying his every move, and everything in my gut tells me the same thing: Pavel Fetisov didn’t kill my parents.

Piotr has always been so certain. But he’s also always been…Piotr. Controlling. Ruthless. Willing to twist the truth into whatever shape serves him best. But if I let myself believe that about Piotr, what does that mean for everything I’ve built my life around?

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