Page 62 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
For just a moment, the hardness in his face softened. Wonder and terror and something that might’ve been joy flickered across his features before the mask slipped back into place.
“We’re having a baby,” he repeated, like he was testing how the words felt. “In the middle of all this.”
“I know the timing isn’t ideal—”
“The timing is perfect.” His voice was fierce, certain. “This baby is going to grow up in a world where the Kozak name is nothing but a memory. Where you can walk out that door without looking over your shoulder.”
The conviction in his voice made me believe, for just a moment, that it might be possible. That love and determination might be enough to build the kind of life we want for our child.
But then I remembered Mila’s cold eyes, her casual cruelty, the way she’d been planning my death while making me tea and organizing my schedule. And I realized that bringing a baby into this world wasn’t just about love—it was about survival.
“I want to see her interrogated,” I said, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.
Lev turned to look at me, eyebrows raised. “Anya—”
“She was in my home. She cooked my food, answered my phone, planned to kill my baby.” My hands curled into fists in my lap. “I want to look her in the eye while she tells us where Sasha is.”
“Interrogations aren’t—”
“I don’t care what they’re like.” I stood up, ignoring the way the movement made my head spin slightly. “I’m done being the innocent wife who gets protected from the ugly parts of this life. That girl tried to murder me and our child. I have a right to hear what she has to say.”
Lev studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him weighing protection against respect, his need to shelter me against his understanding that I was no longer the same woman who used to hide from his world.
“It won’t be pretty,” he warned.
“Neither was finding out I’ve been living with a professional killer for three weeks.”
He nodded slowly. “Then we go together.”
As we prepared to leave—Lev moving carefully but determinedly, me struggling with a combination of pregnancy symptoms and leftover shock—I caught sight of the shattered glass in our bedroom doorway. The red juice had spread across the white tiles in patterns that looked disturbingly organic, like blood vessels or branching coral.
That juice was meant to kill my baby. To end this new life before it even had a chance to begin.
The thought filled me with a rage so pure and clean it took my breath away.
Mila Kozak had made a mistake. She’d threatened the wrong woman’s child, underestimated the wrong mother’s protective instincts.
And now she was about to discover exactly what kind of monster you create when you corner a Bratva wife.
Chapter 21 – Lev
I sat against the headboard, my bruises having faded to dull yellows and greens that spoke of healing rather than fresh damage. The hospital bed had been traded for our own mattress twelve hours ago, and the difference was like night and day. Here, in our space, with Anya curled beside me, her cheek resting on my bare chest, I could almost pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
Her fingers traced gentle patterns over my heart, following scars both old and new. The motion was hypnotic, soothing in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“Do you think I’d be a good dad?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, vulnerability bleeding through despite my best efforts to keep it contained.
She lifted her head, hazel eyes meeting mine with a certainty that took my breath away. “You’d be a great dad.”
The simple conviction in her voice made something tight in my chest loosen. “My father wasn’t exactly a role model for healthy parenting.”
“Your father loved you.” Her voice was soft but firm. “He made impossible choices in an impossible world. He sent Trev and your mother away to keep them safe, lived apart from half his family to protect both his sons. That’s not failure—that’s sacrifice.”
I thought about Mike Antonov, about the man who had raised me in shadows and violence but always made sure I understood the difference between necessary brutality and senseless cruelty. Who taught me that some things were worth dying for, but more importantly, worth living for.
“He used to take me fishing,” I said, surprising myself with the memory. “Before everything went to hell. Before Taras burned down our house and killed my family. We’d drive out tothis lake about an hour north of the city. He’d tell me stories about his father, about the old country.”
Anya’s hand stilled on my chest. “What kind of stories?”
