Dirty Grovel: Chapter 37

I’m skipping two important meetings to be here so early.

It’s not like I have anything to do.

It’s not that I have a promise to keep or a reservation to make.

There is no special occasion that warrants my presence. No mistake I need to make penance for.

Just a longing in my chest that I can’t quell.

And a hardness in my pants that I can’t tame.

Sutton is standing in the breakfast book, her back to me, her face trained towards the gardens. I take a moment to admire her perfect body.

The straightness of her back, punctuated by a waterfall of golden hair. The curves of her hips, crafted perfectly to fit my hands.

She hardly even looks pregnant from this vantage point.

As I move closer, though, I realize how stiff the set of her shoulders are.

I wonder if she’s worrying about her sister. Sydney has spent most of the last two days confined to her room, watching movies with Sutton and having conversations long into the night.

I know that Sutton needs it just as much as Sydney does, which is why I allow her to leave my bed.

But my patience is wearing thin now. I’ve spent the last several days—in addition to all my other work—researching shrinks and PTSD and generational trauma.

When did I become this man?

The man who frets about his fiancé’s sister? The man who prioritizes his personal life over his professional life? The man who’s started looking up cribs and sleep training methods and breast pumps?

I slip my arms around her waist, causing her to jump, a startled gasp leaving her lips.

“God!”

“No, it’s me,” I joke. “Oleg.”

She gives me a distracted laugh and twists around in my arms so she can look up at me. “I didn’t expect you home so early.”

“I thought we could spend a little time together,” I hear myself say, wondering for a fraction of a second who the hell is talking. “Just you and me.”

She flushes. “Have I been spending a little too much time with Syd?”

“You’re allowed,” I say. “She’s your sister and she’s in bad shape. I’m just not good at sharing.”

“I’ve got news for you, Oleg Pavlov,” she says, glancing down at the stomach that’s forcing a few inches of space between us. “You’re going to have to learn fast. This baby is going to demand most of my time and attention.”

“Hm, is it too late to send it back then?”

She laughs and punches my arm. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. It’s just that Sydney needs me. She’s still processing everything that happened the last few weeks.”

“Understandable.”

She smiles softly. “Thank you for sending me those therapist listings. I’ve narrowed down a few I think might work for Sydney.”

“Have you broached the subject with her?”

“Not yet, but I will,” Sutton promises. “She’s just a little vulnerable right now. I’m afraid she’ll shut down if I force a therapist on her.”

“Sounds like something a therapist could help her with.” Sutton smiles but it’s a sad one, filled with worry that she’s not naming. “What were you thinking when I walked in here? You seemed far away.”

She drops her gaze at once. “It’s nothing.”

She’s gone stiff in my arms. “Tell me what’s bothering you. Or else I’m gonna find a way to get it out of you.”

Chewing on her bottom lip, she glances at me through her eyelashes. “Tell me about the Bratva.”

My blood runs cold. It’s so much worse than I thought it was.

If she had been worrying about her sister, I could have handled that.

If she had been nervous about motherhood, I could have dealt with that.

But this?

I’m not sure I can make the reassurances she wants where my business is concerned. I’m not sure I can give her the security she craves.

And if I can’t… what will that mean for us?

“What do you want to know?” I ask.

“Everything,” she answers. “But mostly, I want to know how our baby fits in.”

Fuck me. I had something totally different in mind when I came home early today.

I should have just thrown her down on the kitchen table and fucked away her worries.

But maturity tells me that this particular problem would have reared its head sooner or later.

“Come,” I say, taking her hand and leading her onto the patio.

Maybe I can make this sound better if I just surround her with beauty. I seat her right beside the sand verbena and fiddlenecks, green blooming bright and lively right next to the sunshine blonde of her hair.

I sit down on the stool in front of her, my hands resting gently on her knees. “There are some things that you’re better off not knowing, princess.”

She shakes her head. “I’m no princess, Oleg,” she insists. “And this is no fairy tale. I want the truth. No sugar coating. Or do you think so little of me that you won’t even try?” Her eyes harden as she looks at me. “I accepted your proposal because I want to be with you, Oleg. I’m not going to run just because things are hard or scary. But I do want to know what I’m in for. I think I deserve to know.”

She’s right; she does deserve to know.

But her self-assurance, her confidence, her strength take me off-guard.

Shame on me. I shouldn’t be surprised at all.

“I have no desire to lie to you, Sutton. And you’re right: You do deserve to know the truth.”

She leans forward to cup my elbows and rest her forehead against mine. “Then tell me.”

Still, though, I hesitate. “It’s not so easy.”

“Why? Because you think I can’t handle it?”

“No,” I admit. “Because I have to explain generations of blood, violence and power to someone who radiates pure light.”

Her eyes go wide. Then a blush races across her cheeks. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly. I’m being serious.”

“If you think I radiate nothing but light, then you’re not seeing me very clearly.”

“Or maybe you’re not seeing yourself clearly.”

She sighs. “If this is a distraction, it’s only kinda working.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you everything.”

And I do.

I start by explaining Bratva tradition to her. The duties and obligations of a pakhan. The responsibilities he has towards his vors and the ones his vors have toward him.

Then I slowly ease her into territory disputes, power struggles, the emergence of rival Bratvas before segueing into the personal politics of it all.

The Martineks.

Their enforcers.

The struggle for supremacy.

She listens to it all with very little reaction. But her deep blue eyes stay focused on me, paying attention to every word, to every twitch of my eyebrow and every wobble on my face.

“The Bratva is not a death sentence,” I assure her. “Nor is it a life sentence. Just because you’re born into it, doesn’t mean you can’t get out.”

“Then it was a choice for you?”

I nod. “My parents gave me one. And they offered the same choice to my sister. Oriana opted out. I opted in.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s all I knew,” I say. “It’s what I saw my father do. It’s what I felt I was born for.”

Something flashes across her face. Regret? I have no idea. It’s gone before I can nail it down.

“And will you give our child the same choice you were given?” Sutton asks, her hand falling automatically onto her belly.

“Without a doubt,” I promise her. “I will not force my lifestyle onto my children. But I won’t discourage them from it, either.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means they’ll be raised the way I was raised. Prepared, but not obligated,” I explain. “We will spend summers in the motherland. They will speak Russian as fluently as they speak English. They will be trained in self-defense, and when they’re older, they will undergo rigorous combat training as well.”

The more I talk, the paler Sutton becomes. “It doesn’t sound like you’re talking about raising children, Oleg. It sounds more like you’re talking about drilling soldiers.”

“That’s only one part of their lives. They will go to the best schools. They will travel the world. They will have the best opportunities I can offer them. They will want for nothing.”

“Except a normal life,” Sutton points out quietly.

“Normal lives are overrated,” I say, cupping her face. “We can give them safety and security. We can give them a happy family, a happy home. Joining the Bratva is only one of many choices they will be offered. The rest is up to them.”

“Children, huh?” she says after a long pause. “You’re already planning ahead.”

My face cracks into a huge smile. “I don’t like to do anything halfway. If we’re doing this, we might as well have a football team.”

“How many kids is that, exactly?”

I wink. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

“My head is not worried. My vagina is.”

I grab her by the hips and pull her onto my lap. The stool complains with a muted creak.

“Oleg,” she whispers, circling my neck with her arms, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being honest with me. For telling me the truth without sugar-coating anything.”

“I didn’t scare you?”

“No, you absolutely did,” she giggles. “Just not enough to make me want to back out of this. Not that anything could.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I think that no matter what, we can overcome anything, so long as we stay honest with each other and stick together.”

She wriggles her head onto the shelf of my shoulder. Her soft, inward smile is worth every exposed secret.

I breathe in her warm, salty scent. She smells of promises, of possibility.

We sit there for a while, inhaling and exhaling in sync, no need for words to ruin the closeness.

“I do have one more question,” she says after a few pleasant minutes have passed.

My stomach drops an inch. “Yes?”

“How many players are on a football team?”