Knocked Up by the Russian (Nikolai Bratva Brides #3)

Chapter 14 - Ivan

Amy was silent as they reached the restaurant, and he could already feel himself missing the light camaraderie they'd shared in the car. Ivan had booked a little table on the balcony at Giovanni's, and their waiter ushered them to it with a wide smile that looked a little awkward. Ivan ignored him, his palm on the small of Amy's back as he pulled her chair out. She didn't even look at him as she sat down.

He'd fucked up. Again. Why was it always when he had her best interests in mind that it became an argument? His jaw tensed as he settled down across from her, taking in the bistro around them with a glance.

He'd only visited once before, driven by curiosity when Zia brought Amy a takeout container with tiramisu in it. He'd recognized the logo on the container and asked Zia about it while Amy was out. Apparently, she'd been coming here for years. He'd ended up visiting the next day and found himself looking at the menu and wondering what else his little bear liked to choose from it. Taking Amy on a date here was something he'd been thinking about for months—but in his head, she was still talking to him, not frowning at the red and white checkered tablecloth while he ordered them wine.

Desperation urged him to do something, say something—but this time he held back and left her to her thoughts as he looked around them. His eyes cataloged the nearest exit points, ignoring the intimate ambiance of wooden tables spaced far enough apart to give them privacy. The pavement outside was busy, but no one was looking their way.

Secure in the knowledge that no one would try anything in such a public space, Ivan turned his attention back to his little bear. Their waiter returned and he gritted his teeth when she shot him a fake smile before ordering a plate of spaghetti bolognese. Those smiles belonged to him, not the high school kid wearing gingham aprons and skinny jeans.

The kid blanched when he turned to face Ivan, and it settled the beast inside him when Amy did too, her eyebrow raised in annoyance. He ordered the lasagne, then leaned back in his seat when Amy looked away again.

"What am I supposed to do in the apartment, Ivan?" she said then, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence. Her eyes were focused on the shelf of wine and he double-checked the labels. It was a bottle he already owned at home, but if she liked that he'd get another. Anything to make her happy. That's why keeping her at the apartment was such a difficult decision. He hated the thought of isolating her, but if he wanted to keep her safe, then that's what he was going to have to do. The apartment had some of the best security, second only to the gated estate that Lev and Mikhail owned.

Still, the tension eased from his shoulders now that she was actually speaking and he shrugged casually. "Whatever you want, Mishka." What's mine is yours— he didn't say that though. She'd go quiet really quickly after giving him a tongue lashing 'bout as worse as his mother had when he was younger.

"I want to go back to work. You want to know what I don't want? To be stuck in a cage," she countered irritably, fingers playing with the knives and forks set out on her side of the table. He stayed quiet, watching her brow furrow. "Don't keep me in a fucking cage, Ivan."

"It's my job to keep you safe. I wouldn't do it if there wasn't a threat on your life, Amy." He watched her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her face showing dismay at his words. He hated that, but fuck... his ring was on her finger; evidence of the vows they'd made to each other. And maybe that didn't mean anything to her yet, but it meant something to him. He'd keep her safe, even if she hated him for it. His shoulders straightened while he waited for her argument. There was no way she didn't have one.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably at her words. "I don't want to argue. Let's just eat dinner and go back to the apartment."

She rubbed her temples and he blinked at her. Since when? Amy didn't give anything up without a fight, that she was doing that now made him blanch. He loved it when she fought him. It meant she was comfortable enough to ask for what she wanted, and he often gave in when she made a valid enough point. The fact that she wasn't even bothering to now left him feeling on edge. It felt like she'd given up on something. But on what? Him? No... She was probably just tired. They hadn't slept much the night before.

"If that's what you want, Mishka," he answered softly, nearly wincing at the glare she threw his way.

"What I want is for you to stop fucking trying to control everything," she stated bitterly, and he didn't know how to respond, so he stayed quiet.

Uneasy silence reigned, and the feeling wrapping it's hands around his stomach left him on edge. He couldn't name it, but it felt a lot like worry. There was nothing to worry about, though... Right?

The date he'd planned ended quietly after they finished their dinner and paid. Ivan felt his lip curl down as he grabbed the takeaway container of tiramisu he'd ordered in advance. He'd thought she might like it when they got home... Hell, he'd thought she might even ask for a piece during their date but she hadn't. It felt like a bad omen.

When they reached the apartment, Amy slipped toward the rooms without a word, and he sat on the couch. He ran his hands through his hair as he tried to pick their conversation apart in his head. Rustling upstairs let him know she was getting ready for bed, and Ivan sighed before rising to put the tiramisu and their leftovers into the fridge.

While in the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of the half-empty Johnny Walker Blue sitting in his alcohol cupboard. He could see the moment she switched the light off in the bedroom, and he finished his drink only to pour another. The quiet around him was stifling, but he didn't switch the TV on. Uncertainty plagued him, same as the question of whether he should sleep on the couch or in his bed.

Finishing the bottle, he lumbered toward the staircase, his footsteps silent. He backed away, finding himself in the kitchen again. Adrian had cleaned the ice cream up before they left for the clubs, but the smell still lingered—hazelnut praline, the chocolate mix reminding him of her. He hardly ever had a sweet tooth, but he kept surrounding himself with things that reminded him of her.

An hour or two passed, and Ivan had started on a bottle of rum that left his surroundings buzzing nicely. Finally, he walked up the stairs to his room only to find himself frozen on the landing. The sight of Amy curled around his pillows was enough to leave his cock throbbing. Her skin pale against his black linen.

He walked toward her, stopping a few feet away. She was awake, her body curled on the furthest side of the bed. His duvet hooked under her bare leg.

She didn't say anything, so he didn't either. Ivan walked to the empty side of the bed and pulled his suit off, unholstering his gun and leaving it on the nightstand. He kicked off his shoes, then climbed into the bed, naked as the day he was born. Drunk, he could be as stubborn as his wife, and he didn't see a reason to put sweats on now that they'd slept together. He'd only done it previously because he hadn't wanted to make her uncomfortable.

Amy stayed silent the entire time, and frustration bubbled as he got comfortable, shifting the pillow the way he liked it. It didn't take him long to fall asleep after that.

***

Waking the next morning, his head throbbed in tune with his cock. The sun felt like it had risen early just to get back at him. It pierced through his eyelashes, and he groaned, burying his nose in Amy's hair as he hooked an arm around her waist. She'd fallen asleep on the other side of the bed, then changed position in her sleep until he was caught in her snare. An arm curled on his chest, her torso covered him, and she'd hitched her leg around his.

"Ty chertovski menya muchayesh'," he muttered, fingers sliding to grip her bare leg. She was warm, and in the perfect position for him to sink his hard cock into her—pure fucking torture in the prettiest form.

He had to move her, but the pounding in his head made it hard to think, and he hissed out a breath as she shifted on top of him. Her knee pressed into his dick, lighting his whole body on fire as she woke, but it was the whimper in the back of her throat that undid him as she wriggled around. Her pajamas slid softly against his bare skin, and her eyes were dazed when she finally lifted herself up to see where she was—and who she was rocking against.

"Mishka," he puffed, hands gripping her moving hips. The more she moved, the less he could think, and his voice became a plea. "Tell me you need me."

"Ivan," she whispered, the rosy flush on her cheeks countering the way she stiffened a second later. Before he could say anything, she'd already slid off of him and stumbled toward the bathroom.

Frustrated, he shifted to a seated position, hitting his pillow as he did. The toilet flushed, and he could hear her washing her hands in the basin. When the shower started, his mind filled with images of her soft skin, and he swallowed. Unable to get his dick under control, he got out of bed and strode toward the bathroom.

Amy stood in the shower, her arms folded as the water poured over her. Amusement filtered in through the irritation, and he leaned against the wall to watch her.

"Frustrated, little bear?" he finally murmured as she grabbed his soap and turned her scowl on the tiled wall. The urge to join her was too much to resist, and he closed the distance between them, watching her for any sign that she didn't want him there—but Amy acted like he didn't even exist.

Annoyance prickled in his gut, forcing him into action.

The shower was big enough for a crowd, two spouts sluicing water down their frames as he stepped in behind her. Toying with her hair, he spoke. "Tell me you need me, Mishka."

Her lips pursed as she ignored him, and her nipples pebbled as he slipped a hand around her waist. "Tell me to go then," he whispered, but she didn't.

Stubborn fucking woman. He laid kisses on her neck, scraped his teeth against her shoulder, and nudged her toward the shower wall. Her hands reached for the tile, a faint whimper spilling from her lips as he resumed what she'd started a few minutes before.

"Speak to me, Mishka," he asked, dipping a finger into her wet heat. She shook her head, and he turned her around to face him, taking her lips in a kiss that left him burning.

Her sharp teeth nipped his bottom lip, and his abs clenched. Fucking brat , he pulled away to glare at her. Her gaze slid past his, her chin lifted stubbornly.

Fine , if she wanted to play like that, then he was more than happy to abide. Stepping away from her, he grabbed the soap and washed it off, pretending he didn't see the disappointment flashing across her features before he rinsed off and stepped out.

There were other ways he could use to get her to speak. Ivan dried himself off with a towel, brushing his teeth while his little bear glared daggers at him. Then he left the bathroom to get dressed and walked downstairs to make breakfast.

Amy joined him half an hour later, her body tense as he placed a bowl of chia and yogurt in front of her. Disgust curled her lip, and he fought a smile, sure she'd say something. When she didn't, his smile turned to a frown.

"Don't ignore me, Mishka. Please."

Nothing.

His heart thudded unnervingly, and he placed a mug in front of her. "Amy, I'm doing this for your safety. I don't want to keep you cooped up as much as you don't want to be stuck here all day. But until we figure out who's sending the threats, then this is what we're stuck with."

In the silence, he heard her words from last night echo in his head: "Don't put me in a fucking cage, Ivan."

Can't she see I don't want that either?

Trying again, he walked around the kitchen island to kiss her. His heart turned to ice when she stayed still. Like a fucking statue. Gritting his teeth, Ivan pulled away. "I don't want you to get hurt. Can't you understand that?"

Her gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head, chuckling darkly as his fingers ran through his hair. His thoughts darkened. Fuck. The things he was going to do when he found the bastard behind the threats. It would make Mikhail's reputation pale in comparison. No one fucked with what was his.

***

Ivan phoned his brothers when he got to the office, looking for an update on their search for the man threatening his wife. No one had anything new to add, and he huffed out a frustrated breath. A knock sounded on their office door, and he looked up.

"Come in," he called, straightening his tie.

"Morning, sir." Lacey smiled, a frown between her eyebrows as she lifted a familiar package. Ivan stiffened at the sight of it. "Delivery just dropped this off. Is Mrs. Nikolai coming in today?"

"No, Amy's working on something with her mother at the moment," Ivan lied, shooting her a fake grin to ease any nerves. Without Amy there, he was taking on more responsibility with the staff—but a lot of them preferred his wife to him, and he found that fucking ironic.

"Okay. I'll just leave it on her desk then," Lacey murmured, but Ivan shook his head and gestured for her to bring it to him.

"I'll take it, thanks."

"No worries. Here we go, sir." She strode toward him and placed it on the table as his cell phone started to ring. Ivan grabbed it absent-mindedly as Lacey ducked out, his full focus on the package as he answered it.

"Hello," he grunted, holding the cell phone between his ear and his shoulder as he slid open his switchblade and cut through the clear tape.

"Am I catching you at a bad time?" Mikhail asked, and Ivan shook his head before realizing his brother wouldn't see that.

"No, why?" His fingers pulled the flaps of the package open, and the bullet rolled onto his desk. Anger simmered in his veins, and Ivan slammed his hand on the table, forgetting his brother could hear it on the other end of the line.

"Ivan?"

"Fuck, sorry. I just received another one of those fucking packages." He pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh as he leaned back into his seat. "What can I help with?"

"That's actually why I'm calling. We're at Cloud 9. Someone must've thought you'd be here because I just opened another one of those packages."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Ivan snarled. "Why the fuck would they send it there? Amy hasn't worked there for over a year."

No, but he'd been there just the other night. His gut sank. Someone was monitoring him. Ice formed in his gut. He had to phone Adrian. Mentioning that he'd meet Mikhail in twenty minutes, Ivan got off the call and dialed his brother's number.

"She's fine," his brother commented dryly.

"How did you know I was about to call?" he answered gruffly, packing the bullet and paper back into the package he'd received it in.

"Though Ilya phoned you. Why?"

The ice grew, freezing his fingers as they reached for his Ducati's keys. "Why the fuck would Ilya phone?"

The phone went silent before Adrian's voice came back online. "She picked up a package from the front desk."

Fury blinded him and Ivan heard his phone crack. "Mikhail received one too. At Cloud 9."

A low whistle met his ears. "I'll phone Kostya, he's fishing for more information on the bullets at the moment. Where are you?"

"I'm at Eclipse, but I told Mikhail I'd meet him in a couple of minutes."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Adrian said before ending the call.

Ivan stood there for a minute, his finger on Amy's number. He pulled it away. She wouldn't answer. The thought left him depressed, but with three more packages in their hands, he had enough to distract himself with. He blew out a breath, grabbing the rest of his things before he headed out to his bike.

Whoever the fuck was behind these threats was going to end up on the wrong end of his gun when he found them. He refused to lock Amy up forever—at this rate, she had the perfect excuse to want to leave him. Bitterness filled him at the thought that Amy would get back to her life, only to leave his own in the process. He refused to see that come to pass.

After putting the package into his backpack, Ivan swung his leg over the Ducati, pulling his helmet on a second later. God, what he'd give to have his wife on it with him.

The brisk Chicago air batted against his skin as he sped through the streets a moment later.