Page 38 of Hostage with Benefits'

“Possessive much?”

His lips quirked in that almost-smile I'd grown to recognize as genuine amusement. “I told you I’ll always be like that,kukolka. Always.”

The ballroom was a study in opulence, with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and gold accents that stopped just short of being tacky. The guests were similarly elegant, the women dripping with jewels, the men in impeccable suits that couldn't quite disguise the dangerous energy that hummed beneath their civilized appearance.

This was Mikhail's world, the upper echelon of organized crime, gathered to celebrate Mikhail's grandfather’s seventieth birthday.

I'd met Mikhail's family exactly once, three months after our impromptu Vegas wedding. The encounter had been cordial but cool, his mother clearly disapproving of both the hasty marriage and the American bride. His father had been less so, studying me with piercing blue eyes so similar to Mikhail's that it was unsettling.

“Mikhail,” a voice called, and we turned to find a barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair approaching. “And the lovely Mrs. Volkov.”

“Uncle Viktor,” Mikhail greeted him. “You remember my wife, Natalia.”

“How could I forget?” The older man kissed my cheeks in the European fashion. “The American who tamed our Mikhail. You're looking radiant tonight.”

Mikhail tensed slightly beside me. We hadn't announced the pregnancy to his family yet. It was a deliberate choice on my part. I wanted to keep the news contained for as long as I could.

“Thank you,” I said smoothly. “It's good to see you again.”

As the evening progressed, I was separated from Mikhail and drawn into a circle of wives and girlfriends who eyed me with curiosity. I'd learned that everyone assumed I was a monolingual American, and I forgot to correct them.

“She doesn't look like much,” one woman murmured in Russian to another, eyeing me over her champagne glass. “How did she manage to get Mikhail Volkov to marry her?”

“I heard she was his hostage,” another whispered back.

I sipped my water, pretending not to understand. Let them underestimate me. It was a position I'd grown comfortable with.

“Mrs. Volkov,” a cold female voice interrupted in English. I turned to find Mikhail's mother, Elena, elegant as always in midnight blue. “A word, if you don't mind.”

The other women scattered like startled birds. I followed Elena to a quieter corner of the ballroom, bracing myself for a subtle interrogation about my suitability as Mikhail’s wife.

Instead, she surprised me by saying, “You're pregnant.”

It wasn't a question.

I met her gaze steadily. “Yes.”

“How far along?”

“Four months.”

She nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “And you haven't told the family.”

“Mikhail knows. That's what matters.”

“You've changed him,” she sighed. “He’s keeping secrets from me.”

“I haven't tried to.”

“No, I don't imagine you have. That's probably why it worked.” She studied me with her scary penetrating eyes. “He smiles now. Did you know that? Before you, I hadn't seen my son smile in years.”

I didn't know how to respond to that, so I remained silent.

“The men,” she continued after a moment, “they carry darkness in them. It's what makes them successful in this world. But it's also a burden.” Her gaze drifted to where Mikhail stood across the room, deep in conversation with his grandfather. “You've lightened his. For that, if nothing else, I suppose I should thank you.”

Before I could respond, she was gone, gliding back into the crowd with the practiced ease of a woman who had navigated these events for decades.

I found Mikhail again twenty minutes later, after extracting myself from a conversation with a particularly persistent wife of one of his associates.

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