Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: Chapter 37

I wake before dawn. My fingers automatically seek Sam’s warmth, but his side of the bed is cold.

I’m not worried, though. When I crane my neck to peer through the windows, I catch a glimpse of him running the dogs around the castle perimeter—his new morning ritual since Rufus and Ruby arrived.

It’s funny how quickly we’ve all settled into our rhythm. Two weeks since I cried so many happy tears that Mrs. Morris worried I’d get dehydrated and forced a literal gallon of tea down my throat, life feels like we’ve always done it this way.

Samuil runs the dogs. Grams and Mrs. Morris stroll the loch. Hope and Myles “sleep in” until second breakfast is served, though there isn’t a single soul in the castle who believes they’re doing much actual sleeping.

It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s perfect. It’s pure.

But today, everything changes.

My stomach flips at the thought. For once, it’s not morning sickness. It’s because, today, we find out if this tiny spark of life inside me is real. If it has a heartbeat. If it’s healthy.

If it’s a sign that Sam and I can create something beautiful together.

The thought sends me sprinting to the bathroom, where I promptly dry heave into the toilet. It’s the first time I’ve done that in a while.

“First ultrasound jitters?” Hope leans against the doorframe, already dressed in yoga pants and one of Myles’s old Dartmouth hoodies.

“That obvious?” I mumble, wiping my mouth as I rise back to my feet.

“Only to someone who’s known you since you tried to rescue that three-legged raccoon in tenth grade.” She hands me a cup of ginger tea. “Come on. Mrs. Morris made those little egg things you like.”

But the mini quiches—usually my favorite—sit untouched on my plate while everyone else demolishes breakfast. Even Grams, who usually picks at her food like a bird, helps herself to seconds.

Sam’s hand finds my knee under the table. “Eat, zaychik. The appointment isn’t for hours.”

I nod. “Yeah. You’re right.” But I barely manage two bites before my fork clatters to my plate. “What if something’s wrong, though? What if⁠—?”

“Then we’ll handle it.” His voice carries the same steady conviction that made me fall for him in the first place. “Together.”

Grams reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “That’s right, dear. And you’ve got all of us right here with you.”

The lump in my throat makes it impossible to respond, but as I look around at my family, I realize they’re right.

Whatever happens today, I’m not alone anymore.

“Anyway!” Hope claps to signal a change of subject. “Let’s talk about what’s really on everyone’s mind: wallpaper. The nursery absolutely needs a woodland theme. You know, since you two met because of a certain four-legged menace.”

Right on cue, Rufus lifts his head from where he’s sprawled at my feet and gives a low woof.

“Speaking of menaces,” Grams says, her eyes twinkling, “did I ever tell you about the time Nova was born? She came three weeks early, right in the middle of a blizzard. Your father had to⁠—”

I tense at the mention of my dad, but Sam’s fingers tighten on my knee, grounding me. The familiar weight of his hand anchors me to this moment, to this room full of people who actually love me.

“More tea, dear?” Mr. Morris swoops in with the pot before I can answer. “And a scone. You’d best finish that, or Mrs. Morris will have your head. The wee bairn needs its strength for its photo shoot today.”

I open my mouth to protest, but before I can, I catch Sam watching me from the corner of my eye. The ice in his gray eyes has melted into something molten, something that makes my breath catch.

It’s the same look he gave me that first day with Rufus, when the Great Dane knocked us both into Lake Michigan. Like he sees past all my carefully constructed walls straight to the scared girl inside who just wants someone to stay.

“One more cup,” I concede, letting Mr. Morris fill my mug. “But only because you’re all being so nice about my impending mental breakdown.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, lass,” he scolds me playfully. “You’ve got too many of us here to keep you upright.”

For a local spot in this quiet Scottish town, the clinic is surprisingly fancy.

The waiting room looks like it was plucked straight from a London magazine spread, all gleaming teak and soft, recessed lighting. But what catches my attention isn’t the décor—it’s how the receptionist’s face lights up when she sees Sam.

“Mr. Litvinov! And this must be Mrs. Nova.” She beams at me like we’re old friends. “We’re so delighted to have you here with us today. Dr. MacPherson’s been reviewing your file personally.”

Of course he has. My mountain of a man may act like this is just another Tuesday morning, but I know better. The way his hand stays pressed against my lower back, the slight tension in his jaw—he’s been planning this appointment down to the smallest detail.

Grams squeezes my fingers as we settle into the plush chairs. “Remember when we used to play doctor with your dolls?” she whispers. “You always insisted on being both the doctor and the worried mama.”

I let out a teary laugh. How many times did I drag my toy medical kit to her apartment, seeking refuge from the chaos at home? She never turned me away, not once.

“I still have that little stethoscope,” she continues. “Been saving it, just in case.”

My eyes burn. Stupid pregnancy hormones. “Grams…”

“None of that now, sweetness.” She pats my cheek. “Save the waterworks for when you see your little one.”

Before I can respond, a nurse appears. “Ms. Pierce? We’re ready for you.”

Sam helps me up, and as we follow the nurse down the hallway, I catch his reflection in a glass panel. His face is carved from stone, but his eyes—his eyes tell a different story.

He’s just as nervous as I am.

The exam room is warm and dim, like a cocoon. I lie back on the padded table, my hand finding Sam’s as the technician bustles around with practiced efficiency. Her Scottish lilt reminds me of Mrs. Morris as she explains each step, each piece of equipment.

“This might be a wee bit cold,” she warns, squirting gel onto my stomach.

I flinch at the temperature, and Sam’s fingers tighten around mine. His thumb traces circles on my palm—the same soothing pattern he uses when I wake from nightmares.

The technician’s wand glides over my belly as she chatters with Grams about the weather, but I barely register their voices over the whoosh-whoosh sound filling the room. Is that⁠—?

“Ah, there we are.” The technician taps a few keys, freezing the image. “Look at that strong heartbeat.”

“Just like her grandmother.” Grams leans forward, squinting at the screen. “I had two miscarriages before Nova’s father, you know. The doctor said my heart wasn’t strong enough to carry, but I showed him.”

The technician laughs appreciatively. “We do love to see fighting genes in our mamas-to-be. And it’s so nice to have this many generations here for support! Will other grandparents be joining for future visits?”

The technician’s innocent question slices through our bubble of calm.

Sam goes completely still beside me. The temperature plummets.

My heart aches at the thought of the empty spaces in this room. Two ghosts hover at the edges of our happiness—a junkie who sold her son for a fix, and a man who recorded the transaction just to torture that same little boy for decades.

The worst part? I can picture exactly how this scene should’ve played out. In a different world, a better world, Leonid would’ve worn that pinched expression he gets whenever something threatens his control. He’d lean against the wall, pretending indifference, but there’d be a heart beating beneath that mask that would love his grandson like no other.

And Samuil’s mother? In that parallel universe where she chose her son over her addiction, she’d be here clutching Sam’s other hand, weeping with joy over her first grandchild.

Instead, we have these shadows. These what-ifs. These could-have-beens. These severed, bleeding stumps of the family tree.

“We’re keeping things intimate for now,” I cut in quickly, forcing brightness into my voice. “Just immediate family.”

The technician’s professional smile never wavers as she positions the wand. “Right then. Well, let’s see what we can see, shall we?”

I hold my breath, grateful when she launches into technical explanations about measurements and markers and this and that. It’s all gibberish to me right now. Sam’s grip on my hand remains vise-like, but I feel the exact moment some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

This is our family now—the one we’re building together. The one we chose. The one that includes my grandmother’s gentle wisdom and Hope’s infectious laughter, but not the grim shadows of our pasts.

The technician adjusts something on her screen, and suddenly, a new rapid swooshing fills the room. “Ah-ha! There we are,” she says softly. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat.”

I can’t breathe. My world narrows to the grainy black-and-white image on the screen, to the frenetic flutter that means our baby is alive. Real. Growing inside me.

Sam’s fingers crush mine, but I barely notice the pain. I’m too busy memorizing every detail of this moment—the catch in Grams’s breath, the way Hope sniffles behind me, the steady thump-thump-thump that proves Sam and I made something miraculous together.

“There’s your baby.” The technician’s voice is gentle as she points to a tiny shape on the screen. “Would you like to know the sex?”

Sam and I shake our heads in perfect sync. After everything that’s happened, this one surprise feels right. Sacred, almost.

His breath tickles my ear as he leans down. “Krasavitsa,” he whispers, and for the first time since I’ve known him, his voice cracks on the word.

It’s all he needs to say.

I tear my gaze from the screen to look at him. His gray eyes shine with unshed tears, and the sight undoes me completely. This man who calculates every move, who guards his emotions like nuclear codes, is crying over our baby.

“Everything looks perfect,” the technician continues, but her words fade into background noise. I’m lost in Sam’s expression, in the way his thumb taps a rhythm on my knuckles, in the realization that this is what unconditional love looks like.

We’re going to be parents. We’re going to give this child everything we never had—safety, stability, the knowledge that they’re cherished beyond measure.

The future stretches before us, bright with possibility.

For once, I’m not afraid.

Back at the castle, I’m floating, weightless with joy, as Sam’s security detail crowds around him to examine the ultrasound photos.

“Look at that nose—definitely yours, boss.” Viktor peers closer at the grainy image. “Poor kid.”

“Nah, that’s all Nova.” Dmitri jabs a thick finger at the picture. “See that stubborn little chin?”

“The head shape,” Myles cuts in. “I’d know that ugly melon anywhere. That’s your kid, Samuil. Apologies, Nova—your son or daughter will no doubt grow into it eventually, but the Litvinov skull is like a bowling ball on steroids.”

“You’re all wrong.” Sam tucks the photos away carefully, reverently. “This child will be perfect because he or she is ours.” His eyes meet mine, molten silver and fierce with pride. “Krasavitsa, we made this.”

Hope squeezes my hand as fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “Yeah,” I whisper. “We did.”

Mrs. Morris comes bursting from the kitchen to wrap me in a bone-crushing hug that smells of lavender and fresh-baked scones.

“Come, come!” She practically drags me toward the great hall. “We’ve been dying to show you.”

The hall has been transformed. Tiny white flowers spill from porcelain vases, and the afternoon sun streams through stained glass windows, painting everything in ruby, turquoise, and honey-gold light.

But what stops me in my tracks is the wooden cradle beside the crackling hearth.

Mr. Morris, standing behind it, shifts anxiously from foot to foot. As soon as he sees me, he starts blabbering. “Solid base. Articulating joints to rock the wee ‘un. Oak’s traditional, see? For strength. Proper flex in the cold weather, too.” His callused hands hover over the perfectly smooth rails. “Been working on it since you arrived. The carvings, they’re protection runes—old Highland magic and such. Silly old nonsense, I’m sure, but… well, you never know. Can’t hurt. Anyway, enough rambling.”

I trace the intricate Celtic knots with trembling fingers. “It’s… it’s beautiful.”

“And this!” Mrs. Morris thrusts an impossibly small package into my arms. “For the wee bairn’s first winter.”

Inside lies a cream-colored, hand-knitted sweater, so delicate it feels like holding a cloud. Tiny cables twist up the front like vines.

I gather them both in a hug and cry some more.

The sun has barely begun to set when Sam guides me up the winding stone steps to our tower room, his palm warm against my lower back. The ultrasound photos are still clutched in my other hand—I haven’t been able to let them go.

He pauses at the threshold, then scoops me into his arms. “Let me take care of you tonight, Nova.”

My heart stutters at the raw tenderness in his voice. This is a different Samuil than the one who I used to know. His touch is worshipful as he undresses me, each brush of his fingers igniting sparks under my skin.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, laying me back on our bed. His lips trail fire down my neck, across my collarbone. “Ya lyublyu tebya.”

I arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he takes his time. Gone is the demanding passion that usually drives us both wild. Instead, his hands drift over my body like he’s memorizing every inch, paying special attention to my starting-to-swell stomach.

“Our miracle,” he murmurs against my skin. “You’re giving me everything I never dared want.”

The emotions of the day crash over me like a wave, and tears spill down my cheeks. Sam kisses them away, one by one, his gray eyes rippling with love.

“A family,” he breathes between kisses. “A future.”

I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. In this moment, wrapped in his strength and warmth, I’ve never felt safer or more cherished.

“I love you,” I whisper, and his answering kiss tastes like promises kept.

When he moves into me, it doesn’t feel like sex. It’s too soft and tender and seamless for that. It’s just the beautiful friction of his skin on mine, and with the fire chuckling happily in the corner, I’m bathed in warmth from it and him alike.

He kisses me as he fucks me, and he holds me all the while. I come fast and then I just stay there, hovering on the edge between one orgasm and the next.

“Come with me,” I beg Sam. As I do, I lock my heels behind the small of his back so he has no choice but to empty himself inside of me. There’s only the briefest instance of panic on his face before he’s laughing as he explodes.

I feel like we’re sharing one breath when he kisses me. When he holds me. When he stays nestled inside me and we fall together onto the pillows, laughing again for no reason at all.

I’m not sure how long we lie there. I’m still floating in that hazy space between dreams and reality when the mattress shifts. Sam’s warmth disappears from behind me, and the loss draws me partially awake. Through heavy lids, I watch him pad to the window seat where he left his phone.

The castle’s stones glow in the moonlight streaming through the curtain gap, casting strange shadows across Sam’s bare chest. His face illuminates in the blue glow of his screen, and for a heartbeat, I glimpse the ruthless Bratva boss beneath my gentle giant.

Ice crystallizes in his eyes. That familiar muscle ticks in his jaw. His shoulders bunch with predatory tension.

Then his gaze finds me in our bed, and the frost melts away. The twinkle in his eye reignites.

He sets the phone aside and rejoins me. The mattress dips as he slides under the covers. His arms cage me against his chest, one broad palm cupped possessively over my stomach where our child grows. His breath fans warm against my neck, and despite that flash of darkness I just witnessed, I’ve never felt more protected.

“Sleep, Nova,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss behind my ear. “All is well.”

I should ask what message disturbed his peace. I should worry about what new threat lurks on the horizon.

But right now, wrapped in Sam’s strength, feeling our baby flutter beneath his palm, I choose to focus on this moment of perfect contentment.

Tomorrow will bring what it brings. Tonight, I let myself drift away in my fierce protector’s embrace, choosing to believe that whatever storms gather, Sam will shelter us from the rain.