Page 70 of Sin Wager
The track office is smaller than I thought it would be, dingier too. I sit on the edge of Misha's desk, cleared of the paperwork that cluttered it when we first came in, while the doctor cleans his stethoscope with an alcohol wipe. River water dampens my hair, and my clothes cling to my skin in moist patches that remind me of how close we came to drowning. But at least I'm not shivering violently anymore, not with the heat turned up so high in here.
Misha stands by the window, his back rigid as he watches the activity outside. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, revealing a glimpse of the tattoos that snake down his arm. Water pools at his feet from his soaked clothing, but he doesn't seem to notice. His attention focuses entirely on the track below, where his men move through the crowds.
"Your pulse is elevated, but that's to be expected given your recent trauma." The doctor's hands feel cold as he presses the scope to my chest. Sweat beads on his forehead. It must feel hot in here to him. "Blood pressure is within normal range. No signs of hypothermia despite your submersion."
I nod, though my thoughts drift to the moments underwater when Misha's arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me toward the surface. The way his breath warmed my face when we broke through. The desperate look in his eyes when he dragged me onto the muddy bank.
"The pregnancy appears stable at six weeks," he continues, making notes on his clipboard. "No bleeding, no cramping?" I shake my head, and he furrows his brow and sighs. "The fetus weathered your ordeal remarkably well."
Misha turns from the window at those words. His ice-blue eyes find mine across the small room, and I see something shift in his expression. The hard mask he wears cracks for a moment, revealing vulnerability underneath.
"Six weeks," he repeats, as if testing the words. I see the hurt in his eyes, that I kept this from him for so long, but I knew what would happen. I know what he'll say next too—that he's benching me. He won't want me to have any part of taking Sonya down now.
The doctor glances at him before he packs his instruments into his bag. "I recommend rest for the remainder of the day. Avoid strenuous activity. If you experience any cramping or spotting, call immediately."
"Thank you, Doctor." Misha's voice carries dismissal, and the older man recognizes it. He nods once and leaves us alone in the small office.
The door clicks shut, and the room falls into a charged quiet. Misha moves toward me with slow, deliberate steps. His eyes never leave my face, and I can see him processing everything that has happened. The chase through the warehouse district. The plunge into the icy river. The confirmation that I carry his child.
"You could have died today," he finally says. His voice is rougher than usual, scraped raw by river water and emotion he's fighting to contain.
"But I didn't." I slide off the desk and face him. "We both made it out."
He reaches for me then, his hands framing my face with surprising gentleness. His thumbs trace the line of my cheekbones, and I feel the tremor in his fingers. This man who commands fear and respect from hardened criminals is shaking because he nearly lost me.
"This changes everything," he murmurs. His forehead touches mine, and his breath mingles with my own. "What you're carrying… what we've made together. I can't let anything happen to either of you."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "Then let me help you finish this. Let me be there when you take down Sonya."
His hands drop from my face, and he steps back. The shutters slam down over his expression, transforming him back into the cold strategist I first met weeks ago.
"No." The word comes out flat and final. "You stay here where I know you're protected. My men will watch the office. You don't move until I give the all-clear."
Anger flares in my chest. "I'm not some delicate flower that breaks at the first sign of trouble. I've been handling Sonya for months. I know her patterns, her tells. You need me out there."
"What I need is for you to be alive when this is over." Misha's voice hardens further, but I catch the underlying current of fear. "You think I'm going to risk losing you both now? After everything?"
"You won't lose us." I step closer, closing the distance he tried to create. "But you need to stop treating me like I'm made of glass. I've proven I can handle myself."
"Have you?" His laugh lacks any warmth. "You've been played by the Radich crew for months. Used as their puppet while they bled my books dry. If that's your idea of handling yourself?—"
"Stop," I snap, cutting through his cruel assessment. "You know that's not fair. I did what I had to do to keep Elvin alive. Every choice I made was about protecting my brother."
Misha's jaw tightens, but some of the ice in his expression melts. "And now what? You want to throw yourself back into danger for what? Revenge?"
"For justice." I reach for his hands, surprised when he doesn't pull away. "For the chance to end this properly instead of always looking over our shoulders. Sonya used me, manipulated me into betraying your family. Let me be the one to bring her down."
"The answer is still no." But his grip on my hands contradicts his words, holding tight rather than pushing me away.
"Then give me a reason to stay." My voice drops lower, becoming more intimate. "Tell me why it's so important to you that I'm safe."
His eyes narrow. "You know why."
"No, I don't." I pull my hands free and cross my arms over my chest. "You talk about what I'm carrying, about protecting your heir. But what about me? What about Vera Kovalenko, not just the woman who happens to be pregnant with your child?"
Misha turns away, running a hand through his damp hair. "This isn't the time for games, Vera."
"I'm not playing games. I'm asking for honesty." I move to stand in front of him again, forcing him to meet my eyes. "You want me to sit in this office like a good little prisoner while you and Rolan handle everything. Fine. But first, you admit what's really going on here."
