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

Chapter 16 - Ivan

After spending a full day trying to find answers to the threats Amy kept receiving, Ivan was strung tighter than a hangman's noose.

He nodded a greeting to Ilya as he passed Adrian's open door. She and two others had their laptops open on his brother's table, and they were no doubt monitoring the cameras. Guns lay on the table, all three of them wearing Kevlar. It was their normal measures, but Ivan didn't feel like it was enough after receiving three more threats in the mail.

With his hands full, Ivan took a bit of time to get his biometrics and passcode into the door lock. When it opened, he kicked it shut behind himself, thinking Amy was in the bedroom or the office. He wasn't expecting her to be on the couch, her arms wrapped around her knees.

"What's that?" she asked softly, drawing his attention.

Ivan looked up from the things he'd set on the counter, his body tensing further when he saw the redness around her eyes.

"You've been crying." His voice came out strangled, all signs pointing to her being locked up in the apartment all day. Please don't cry because of me , he wanted to beg.

She didn't even blink at his words, and he realized belatedly that she'd already asked him something first. Heat gathered under his collar, and Ivan picked up the flowers and the dark blue ceramic dish before walking toward her. It didn't feel like enough now that he was standing in front of her.

"It's..." he trailed off, uncertain how to admit what he'd done. His fingers clenched on the rose stems and he huffed a laugh. This was more difficult than he'd thought it would be. "I stopped by your mom to see how the move was going. We chatted for a bit..."

He had to make up a lie about why Amy couldn't make it. He swallowed harshly at Amy's heartbroken stare. Guilt curled to life within him, flicking its tendrils around his heart. God, he should've done better. She could've gone with him to her mom's. To Zia's.

"I asked her what your favorite dinner was, and she said she'd make it if I could get a few of the ingredients." Zia had been there, and she'd overheard. The moment he'd got back from the store with the ingredients Amy's mother wanted for the chicken dish, she'd pulled him aside and interrogated him. The flowers were her idea. His cheeks burned and he felt a bit like an idiot as he handed her the bouquet of lilac roses. They weren't her favorite—but he hadn't been able to find purple dahlias anywhere.

"You brought me flowers and food," she muttered, her voice thick with an emotion he couldn't name. His heart thudded as awkwardness filled his limbs. It didn't feel like enough now that he was looking at it. It was the first time he'd done this for another woman, and it was very possible he was fucking it up.

Voice soft, he murmured, "I'm apologizing, Mishka."

When Amy promptly burst into tears, he was convinced that was true.

"Mishka," Ivan muttered a curse as he dropped the items onto the coffee table. Some of the food escaped the lid, but he barely noticed as he rushed over to her. "Amy, tell me what you need. Please, Mishka. I'll make it better. I promise."

She only cried harder as he tried to comfort her, pulling her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her. Her fingers reached for his shirt, crumpling the expensive fabric like she crumpled his heart. The words she mumbled weren't making any sense, and his fingers felt too large and clumsy when he tried to wipe the tears off her cheeks.

"Shit! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll make it better. Just tell me what I can do to make it better."

He couldn't say he would've rather taken her with, but now that the threats were going as far as the apartment desk—could he really say she had to stay in the apartment anymore? He should've dropped her off at Zia's... or her Mom's. Hell, he shouldn't have left her alone.

"I'm sorry, Mishka." He held her close, unsure what to do. Normally, romancing a girl didn’t end up with her in tears on his lap. Not unless they were from how well he was pleasuring her. So, for the first time in his life, he just didn’t know what to do.

Amy only sobbed harder. "I—Ivan."

His name on her lips left ice in his veins.

"Tell me what you need," he encouraged, hating the part he'd played in her sadness. "Anything, Mishka. Please."

God, if his brothers could see him now. Then again, he doubted any of them had hurt their wives this badly before. He wasn't an idiot. He knew how much Amy hated when he made decisions for her. But he still went and did it over and over again, encouraged by some stupid part of him that thought he'd be able to make things better. And in doing so, maybe she'd look for him next time she had a problem.

Thinking of his brothers, Ivan wondered vaguely if they'd ever had to deal with their wives' tears. What was he supposed to do in a situation like this? Taking his gun out and shooting at the problem wasn't possible if the problem was him—or a decision he'd made.

His upbringing only made things worse. Weaknesses were exploited in the Bratva; he and his brothers had been forced to learn that from a young age.

With his arms wrapped around her, Ivan buried his face in Amy's hair. Her silence felt better than this. "I'm sorry, Mishka."

"S—stop saying you're sorry," she wailed, her little fists beating at his chest.

"Tell me what to do then?" he asked, hoping she'd bruise him. A little pain would do wonders in soothing the ache in his soul.

"Why the hell did you bring flowers?" she asked, finally pulling away. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were bloodshot as she met his. "Why were you checking up on my mom? She's fine... she's raised five kids, she can handle anything. You know that, so why do you care about how she's doing during a move? It's just a move."

Ivan frowned, unsure. "It's her first move in over twenty years. I wanted to make sure it was going alright."

"How do you even know that?" she shouted brokenly as she got up from his lap and started to pace the living room floor.

I asked... He kept quiet, watching her with concern. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and she stopped to wipe them away, her green eyes alight with something akin to anger. But he'd seen her angry enough times to know that this wasn't it.

"Amy—" he started to question, but she shook her head.

"No. Don't Amy me now," she muttered with a harsh laugh, palms cradling her face. "God, how could I miss it?"

"Miss what?" he asked, running his fingers through his hair.

"Everything!" she wailed, turning to face him. "What are we doing, Ivan?"

He rose from the couch, intent on soothing her even if he didn't know how. "I was apologizing," he muttered, still confused as he wrapped his arms around her. She squirmed in his grip, scowling up at him as a fresh wave of tears poured down her cheeks.

His heart clenched tight, and he dropped his forehead to hers. "Tell me what's wrong, Amy."

"This," she said in a wobbly voice as her fingers ran through his hair.

"What?" His brow furrowed as he wondered what she meant. "I don't understand. What is it? Tell me how to make it better, Mishka, and I will."

Amy let out an irritable growl. "Stop that! Stop trying to make me feel better—just... fucking stop trying to control everything."

Then her lips met his, and his questions faded to the background. Her kiss was hesitant, and he could feel her doubt. He exhaled, cradling her face. If kissing her would make her feel better, he wasn't about to complain. Dropping his fingers to her hips, Ivan crushed her to his chest as he deepened their kiss. Need... He needed her. This.

But it wasn't right. There were still questions running through his mind, and he pulled away, intent on finding the answers.

"Amy?" he questioned, fingers caressing her cheeks. "Tell me what's going on."

More tears fell, dropping onto his fingertips, and he wiped them away as his mouth thinned.

"Stop talking before you start another fight," she demanded, pulling away with an indignant sniff. He chuckled under his breath. It was such an Amy thing to say that he couldn't help it.

"What would you have me do then, Mishka?" If she just said the word, it was hers.

She didn't respond, her expression prejudiced, and he let out another laugh. He fucking loved it when she was feisty with him. It sent heat running through his veins, burning the ice that had been there moments ago. She'd had to fight for everything in her life, this way he could convince himself she was fighting for him this time.

"As much as I love you when you're fighting with me," he admitted with another laugh. "I'm starving, Mishka, and your mother's cooking smelled so fucking good in the car."

She blinked up at him, and he took the opportunity to drop a kiss on her forehead.

"Come," he said as he moved toward the table, picking up the blue dish her mother had given him. Amy didn't move and he raised an amused eyebrow. "Not hungry?"

"I am," she muttered after a few minutes. Something he'd done or said appeared to have shocked her and she followed him without a fuss.

"You didn't take your bike?" she asked, one step behind him as he walked to the kitchen. He liked that—her following him. It made his chest puff with arrogance. Amy could never be persuaded to do anything, she had to decide for herself. So if she was following him then that meant he was doing something right.

"I did," he answered while he pulled out two plates. The food had cooled, but it still smelled amazing. He put her plate into the microwave first, the buttons beeping softly as he started it. "I borrowed Adrian's car again. He'll drive the bike back later."

She grew quiet as the food got heated up in the microwave, and Ivan turned to look at her as she climbed onto a barstool. She was wearing one of his shirts. He wasn't sure how he hadn't noticed that when he came in, but it made his heart beat faster in his chest.

The microwave beeped, and he fetched her food, grabbing a fork from the basin before he handed it to her.

"Thank you," she muttered softly as she took both from him. He smiled, about to turn away when she added, "And for the flowers. They're beautiful."

"I'm sorry I couldn't get your favorite," he replied as he put his plate in the microwave. He wasn't as disappointed now that she'd admitted she liked them.

"How do you know my favorite?" she mumbled, and he turned to see her playing with her food. Pressure grew in his chest—then she took a bite, and it eased. Relieved, he let out the breath he'd been holding and rubbed his chest.

"You told me, remember?" he pressed, shrugging his shoulders. "On your birthday last year. I made you angry."

No... She'd been more than angry after dealing with his teasing all day. Looking back on it, even he could admit that he’d been an ass—but she’d gone on a date before, and it was as if he had to remind her about him when she came back to work the next day. Of course, that all backfired when he went to ask her a favor that afternoon.

"Then I asked you to do something or get something... I can't really remember, but you stormed out of the office." He smiled fondly at the memory. He'd never seen anyone stomp away in high heels and part of him had been worried she'd slip going down the stairs. So he'd followed, ignoring the curious eyes of the staff as he heard her cursing him the entire way.

Shaking out of his thoughts, he continued, "I heard you talking to yourself... I can't remember all the words, but I think you said something along the lines of if I was any other man, then I would’ve had to apologize with, 'Dahlias, Swiss chocolate, and a goddamn bottle of champagne' before you'd do anything for them."