He can still be my husband and want someone else. Why else would he visit her alone that first night?
The image of him slipping into her room assaults my vision, followed by images of tangled limbs and curled fingers. It puts me on edge, making me grip the armrest of the chair to keep myself from falling over.
It’s not unreasonable for him to visit my guest and make sure she isn’t fucking things up in here. It’s his house, his building, his Bratva.
But he could have asked me to accompany him. Instead, he went in there.
Alone.
And then slipped back into bed like a thief.
Pavel and Zoya laugh, rooting me squarely back into the present. She touches his arm with an intimate lightness that shoots me up from my chair.
“Zoya,” I spit. “I want to speak to my husband.”
She turns to me, eyebrows raised high.
I fight to keep my voice even, as blood pounds at my ears. “Alone.”
She retracts her hand and drops it into her lap. Pavel gives me a puzzled look and then nods toward the door, holding it open for me to walk into the living room. Cold air smacks my face. I’m ten steps into the penthouse when I veer left and shoot for the kitchen.
I need water. I need ginger ale. I needsomethingto get rid of whatever the hell I’m feeling right now.
A shiver races up my spine as I grab a cold can of ginger ale from the fridge. I glance at my stomach, resting my palm over the imperceptible bump forming low at my waist. It’s not much to anyone else, but it’s pretty obvious to me.
I’m gaining weight.
Pavel steps forward and I put the can between us, stopping him. “Don’t. I’m too hot to be touched.”
He looks visibly hurt but doesn’t argue.
“This is…” I crack open the can, sip it, and groan. “This is so stupid, Pavel. I don’t want to be jealous of her.”
He frowns. “What’s making you jealous,Lisichka?”
“That’s the word.” I cling to the can. “You called herZoyechka. That’s the word it sounded like.”
“I’ve called her that for years. Her father calls her that, too.”
I shake my head. “But it’s more than that. It’s the way you open up to her.”
He doesn’t look away or flinch when I grimace. He holds my gaze. He leans forward to listen. He’s every bit receptive to what I’m telling him.
So, why do I feel like such an idiot?
“You laugh at her jokes and share all of these memories with her,” I continue, my throat tightening the more I think about it. “And the way she just touched you out there made me feel—”
I hiccup. A sting rushes through my nose, and my vision blurs.
Great, now I’m crying.
The heat followed me inside and stuck to my cheeks, hiding the tears now streaming down my face. I cover my mouth to hide the next sob, embarrassed by my reaction.
When I close my eyes, I see my brother standing over me. Fear mingles with the feelings of insecurity.
Stop crying, Jonas would command.It shows weakness.
Oh God, but I can’t control it. I’m all hormones and no logic. The baby isn’t bigger than a speck, yet it’s taking my ability to think.