Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 33

I rotate my hand, watching my engagement ring catch the light from the tower window. The stone is massive, throwing rainbow fractals across my face and the weathered wood beneath my fingers.

A week ago, I would’ve felt like an imposter in front of this ornate mirror with its gilt frame and centuries of tarnish.

Now, it feels right. Like I belong here.

Funny how much can change in a few nights.

The morning after Samuil’s proposal, I woke up to find a team of tailors and stylists in the castle’s great hall. Apparently, my new fiancé doesn’t believe in wasting time—the engagement party is tonight. Half of London’s elite and most of Chicago’s Bratva will be here in a few hours to “celebrate our union.”

More like size me up.

“There now, lass.” Mrs. Morris’s expert fingers weave tiny braids at my temples, pulling them back to cascade with the rest of my dark waves. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You look like you were born to this.”

“Born to what? Play dress-up in a castle?”

“To stand tall.” Her gnarled hands settle on my shoulders. “This castle’s seen its share of nobility, but it knows the difference between real grace and fancy plumage.”

I touch my growing belly, barely visible in the deep green silk of my dress. “I just want to make him proud.”

“Oh, love.” She squeezes gently. “That’s been done since the moment he first saw you.”

A knock at the door makes us both jump.

We turn in unison to see my fiancé. Fiancé—God, that will take some time to adapt to. Three days of saying it in my head again and again and it still feels like an alien word.

Samuil fills the doorway, his massive frame making both the ancient wood and my heart creak. His eyes lock onto me, and I watch his pupils dilate.

Good to know I clean up okay.

“Mrs. Morris.” His voice is quiet thunder. “Could you give us a moment, please?”

The housekeeper pats my shoulder and shuffles out, closing the door behind her without another word. Sam crosses to me in three long strides, his hand sliding beneath my hair to cup my neck.

“You look…” He swallows hard.

“Like I belong in your world?”

“Like you own it.” His thumb traces my jaw. “Which is what we need to discuss.”

I turn to face him fully. “The great Samuil Litvinov needs to discuss something? Alert the media.”

“Actually, that’s exactly what we need to talk about. The media. The attention. All of it.”

“Sam—”

“Listen to me, zaychik.” He crouches before me, taking my hands in his. “Tonight isn’t just about announcing our engagement. It’s about protection. When you’re publicly mine, certain rules come into play. My enemies will think twice.”

“And your friends?”

“Will kiss your feet or answer to me.” His eyes harden. “But they’ll test you first. Watch you. Judge how you handle the pressure.”

I squeeze his fingers. “No pressure at all then.”

“You’re carrying my child. Wearing my ring. About to become my wife.” He rises, pulling me with him. “You can handle anything.”

His certainty wraps around me like armor, and I lift my chin. If he believes in me, what choice do I have but to believe in myself?

The party guests flood into our great hall like vultures circling fresh meat. I stand at the top of the stone staircase, gripping the banister, and take a deep breath of cold Scottish air.

You’ve got this, I tell myself. You survived a cop father with a God complex. You can handle a few rich assholes.

My emerald silk dress whispers against the stairs as I descend, each step measured and careful. The weight of my engagement ring anchors me, a constant reminder of why I’m doing this.

For Sam. For our baby. For us.

Below, a cluster of people mill around drinking champagne and downing caviar. Designer suits, couture gowns, and enough diamonds to feed a small country—these are Sam’s people now.

Which means they need to become my people.

“Nova.” Samuil appears at the bottom of the stairs like a knight in shining Brioni. His hand extends upward, steady and sure. When our fingers touch, warmth floods through me despite the arctic mask he wears for his guests.

Part of me wants to beg him to kick everyone out, bar the doors, and just look at me like that for a long time. Why do we need these other people? We have each other, after all. Right? Isn’t that enough?

But the look in his eyes from upstairs is still seared into my retinas. That control that hides a deep, primal desperation. The thought of losing me.

I can relate. The merest inkling of ever being alone again makes my heart swan-dive into my stomach acid.

Sam pumps my hand to drag me back to the present moment. “May I present Nela and Josef Dvorak?”

The couple standing at the foot of the stairs oozes old money and older judgment. Nela’s scarlet lips curve into something adjacent to a smile while her eyes dissect every inch of me.

“So this is the woman who’s captured our Samuilka’s heart,” she remarks in a posh croon.

Our Samuilka? My spine stiffens. I didn’t realize Sam came with communal ownership rights.

Josef’s gaze sweeps the tapestries hanging on the walls. “The castle is… quaint. Do you plan to modernize?”

Sam’s thumb traces my knuckles—a silent reminder that these people’s opinions mean nothing.

“Actually,” I say, channeling my inner queen, “we love it exactly as it is.”

A few more conversational exchanges that feel more like fencing than chit-chat later, I watch the Dvoraks melt into the crowd, their disapproval trailing behind them like designer perfume.

But they’re only the beginning. More guests arrive in waves, one after the next after the next. Sam guides me through introductions that blur together like watercolors.

An hour in, and I’ve cried mercy, played the pregnant card, and claimed sanctuary on a crimson velvet settee older than America. From here, I can observe the subtle war game playing out in our grand room.

My dangerous man works the crowd with lethal grace, his genuine smile tucked away for safekeeping. This is pure business—calculated charm and measured responses designed to strengthen his position.

Our position, I remind myself. We’re in this together now.

“First time hosting?” A willowy blonde sinks onto the cushion beside me, champagne flute dangling from manicured fingers. “I’m Annika. Viktor’s wife.” She tilts her head toward a bear of a man currently engaged in intense conversation with Sam. “God, I remember my first dinner party after marrying Viktor. Absolute disaster.”

“The soup was cold?” I venture, grateful when she laughs.

But her eyes are sharp, assessing. “The soup was fine. It was me who wasn’t ready. These people…” She waves her glass at the room. “They smell weakness like sharks smell blood.”

“Good thing our girl here isn’t weak.” Paige, a statuesque brunette I met earlier, joins us. She stretches her endless legs out, radiating practiced ease. “Honey, you’ve got nothing to worry about. The way Samuil looks at you? That’s worth more than any social graces.”

I catch Sam’s eye across the room. For a heartbeat, his mask slips and I see my Sam—the one who proposed under the stars, who touches me like I’m precious.

Then Josef asks about profit margins, and the ice slides back into place.

“It’s strange to see him like this,” I murmur, more to myself than to my two new friends. “So… in his element.”

“You can’t deny that it gets results, though,” Annika says, swirling her champagne. “People love him or fear him, no in between. The stories I’ve heard about what happened to the last person who crossed him…”

“It’s just not the Sam I know. That’s all I meant. People have a lot of sides to them. We all contain multitudes or something like that, right?”

Paige snorts delicately. “Smart girl. Half the stories these people tell are bullshit anyway. Though I have to ask—is it true about the Great Dane incident? Because if so, that’s the best meet-cute I’ve ever heard.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “You know about that?”

“Everyone knows,” Annika says. “The fearsome Samuil Litvinov, taken down by an oversized puppy and the tiny woman who couldn’t control it? It’s practically legend now.”

I groan and bury my face in my hands. “Fantastic. Just what I needed to hear before meeting all these people.”

“Oh, honey.” Paige pats my knee. “That story is the reason half these vultures are actually giving you a chance. You made him human. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

I peek through my fingers to find both women watching me with something like respect.

“Besides,” Annika adds, “any woman who can make Samuil laugh in public is someone worth knowing. Now, about these renovations you’re planning—I simply must introduce you to my interior designer. She specializes in historical properties…”

The conversation shifts to safer ground, but I can’t shake Paige’s words. You made him human.

I catch Sam’s eye again across the room. This time when he looks at me, a hint of that legendary smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

Maybe we’re humanizing each other.

The chime of a triangle draws everyone’s attention. Mr. Morris stands a few steps up on the main staircase, dressed in a tuxedo that might predate the castle, complete with a top hat and coattails.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in that rolling brogue, “dinner shall be served momentarily. If your lords and lasses would like to join us…” He beckons to the formal dining room and the dozens gathered begin the slow shuffle inward.

I’m one of the last through the archway. On the other side, the endless dining table gleams beneath a sea of candles, their flames dancing in crystal goblets and gilded platters.

I trace the rim of my wine glass—sparkling grape juice, of course—and try not to fidget as forty pairs of eyes study my every move.

A slew of townspeople hired as catering support staff help everyone to their assigned seat. Annika catches my gaze from across the table and winks as a hush falls over the room. Her silent support steadies me, but my heart still thunders when Sam rises to his feet.

I know what he’s going to say.

I know why he’s going to say it.

That doesn’t stop it from scaring the ever-loving fuck out of me.

His voice rebounds around the room, poised and graceful. “Colleagues. Friends. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

His palm claims my shoulder, and I lean into his touch, drawing strength from his warmth. From his certainty.

“Many of you have wondered why I’ve been spending so much time in Scotland.” Knowing chuckles ripple through the crowd. These people think they understand everything. They don’t know half of what we’ve survived to get here. “The answer is sitting right here.”

The box he withdraws isn’t the one that held my ring. This one is longer, heavier with promise and threat.

“I won’t banter or belabor the point. I’m a man of few words, so here is what matters: Nova and I are engaged to be married.” His words drop like depth charges into the pristine social waters. “And in about six months, we’re expecting our first child.”

Reaction explodes around us—gasps, whispers, the scrape of chairs as people lean forward for a better view of my belly. But I’m transfixed by Sam’s hands as he opens the box. By the way candlelight ignites the rubies and diamonds within.

“May I?” he murmurs.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

The necklace settles against my throat—heavy, cold, then warming to my skin. Sam’s fingers brush my neck as he fastens the clasp, and suddenly, I understand. This isn’t just jewelry. This is a statement. A warning. A promise written in precious stones.

I am his now. His to protect. His to cherish.

And God help anyone who tries to come between us.

The rubies at my throat pulse with each breath, like droplets of blood marking my transformation. One accessory, and suddenly I’m worthy of these people’s attention.

Amazing how quickly money and power can change people’s attitudes. An hour ago, Nela was cutting me with her eyes. Now, as appetizers hit the table, she’s cooing over my “perfect” bone structure and how the necklace suits me “as if it were made for you, darling.”

I suppose that’s the point.

Annika touches my arm as she passes. “Welcome to the family, sister.” Her voice drops. “We’ll have to get together soon. There’s so much to discuss.”

I’m not naive enough to think she means wedding colors.

The men treat me differently, too. Now, they include me in their conversations, testing my knowledge of business and world events. I hold my own—thank God for all those nights discussing Sam’s work over dinner. When I make a particularly sharp observation about market trends in Eastern Europe, Josef’s eyebrows shoot up.

“She has a brain behind that pretty face,” he tells Sam, like I’m not sitting right here.

Sam’s smile is shark-like. “She has everything behind that pretty face.”

My hand drifts to my stomach, where our baby grows, blissfully unaware of the political theater playing out around us. These people can dress up their power plays in Chanel and champagne, but underneath, it’s all fangs and territory markers.

Through second and third courses, I relax. By dessert, I can breathe. But as coffee begins to make the rounds, Paige passes behind my chair and clears her throat softly.

I turn to see her face—which has been full of laughter since the moment she arrived—looking strangely stricken. I don’t know her well at all, but all my alarm bells are going off.

“We need to talk,” she mumbles. “As soon as possible.”

“That would be lovely,” I say, both because it seems like the right response and because she seems like a genuinely kind soul in a room full of hyenas and trained killers.

Her French-manicured nails dig into my arm. “No, you don’t understand. We need to talk. About Leonid.”

My stomach lurches. “Sam’s father?”

“He’s…” She glances around, then leans closer. The scent of her expensive perfume makes my head spin. “Listen, when he comes—and he will come—don’t let him…” She trails off as the door to the dining room creaks open.

“Speaking of the devil,” someone mutters.

The room goes silent. Like someone hit pause on a movie. Even the candles seem to stop flickering.

Then Leonid Litvinov fills the doorway like a storm cloud.

His presence swallows all the air in the room, leaving nothing but cold anticipation. His dark eyes sweep the gathered guests before landing on me.

Unlike the last time we crossed paths, I no longer see any trace of Sam in his face. No proof of warmth or humanity at all. Just calculation and hunger as his thin lips curve into what might be a smile.

Or a declaration of war.

“Well,” he says, his raspy voice carrying to every corner of the suddenly breathless room, “isn’t this a charming family gathering?”