“I’m not accusing your wife, cousin. I’m only asking a question.” To Maeve, he asked, “What do you know about your father’s movement with Aleksander?”
“Nothing.”
Mikhail smiled. “I don’t believe you, Maeve.”
“That’s enough,” Fedya snapped. He wasn’t usually disrespectful. In fact, he barely raised his voice at anyone, let alone the Pakhan. But he was annoyed, irritated, and couldn’t stand one more minute of Maeve quivering under his cousin’s gaze. “If you have any questions, ask me.”
Mikhail turned back to his cousin, unfazed by his behavior. “Do you trust her?”
“I love her.”
“Don’t annoy me, Fedya. That’s not what I asked.”
The beat of silence that followed was deafening. Fedya took a long, well-needed breath, held Maeve’s sweaty hand, and said, “Yes. I do.”
“Good.” Mikhail didn’t look convinced. “Trust is the backbone of any relationship. Are you aware of that, Maeve?”
Maeve nodded, licking her chapped lips. “Yes, I am.”
“Very well then.” He looked back at the opened folder on his table, but he was speaking to Fedya now. “I’m impressed by your efforts with The Butcher, but he’s our responsibility now. You’re not handling him on your own anymore, so leave it to us. Understood?”
“Understood.”
That was done and over with. Yet, Fedya couldn’t fight the sudden urge of restlessness that gnawed at his bones.
Rage—that was what he felt towards Cormac, for letting his daughter be in harm’s way. He wanted to kill him, to take his life as soon as he could. But he needed to be patient. It wasn’t a one-man mission anymore. His entire family was now involvedin this. They were all working together to take care of the matter as soon as possible.
And at least he had Maeve on his side. He’d told her he loved her while they were at the hospital. He wasn’t drunk on anesthesia. He’d told her the truth because he needed her to know it and to remember it no matter what she did. He loved her even more as she tried everything to take his mind off her father’s ambush, adored her even more when she showed him the portrait she’d been working on that turned out to be the exact replica of him, and trusted her even more when she remained by his side every second of the day.
So, even when that ugly voice persisted in his brain, the one of Mikhail asking her if she knew the importance of trust in a relationship, he made sure to lock it deep in a cage in his mind, pretending like he’d never heard them in the first place.
Chapter 24 - Maeve
The last thing Maeve expected tofeel,even after everything that had gone down, was a sense of safety in the Nikolai household. But she did feel safe. She expected a complete 360-degree change from them. Anyone in their right mind would hate her. The daughter of an enemy was no less than an enemy.
Yet, even after her father attempted to kill one of their own in that bar, they still welcomed her into their home. Of course, a few were skeptical—Mikhail, for example, was completely understandable. He led this empire. He had every reason not to trust her, or anyone, for that matter.
After Ilya told her they’d be moved to the family estate, Maeve expected to be treated like a prisoner. But the walls of the estate didn’t feel suffocating. She didn’t feel trapped there. She didn’t feel unwanted. And maybe that was because of Fedya’s siblings, because of the bond she’d already created with them that still—surprisingly—waxed strong even now that they knew who exactly she was.
She was no international law worker in Naples. She was Maeve O’Rourke, the first and only child of Cormac O’Rourke, and yet, despite that ugly fact about her, she was loved. She wasn’t glared at or avoided like she feared they might. Instead, they joked with her like they’d known her all their lives. Viktor had personally handed her a steaming mug of tea after a particularly tense morning with a nod that almost made her cry. Kostya still asked if she was sure she didn’t have a sister she didn’t know about. Irina was still the closest thing to a friend she’d had in years.
And there was Fedya. Fedya, whom she loved even more every single day. Fedya, who was the father of the baby in her womb. Fedya, whom she still hadn’t told about her pregnancy or the messages from her father, simply because she was waiting for the right time.
The right time was starting to look like a poor excuse for her lack of courage. An excuse to prolong her inevitable fear that Fedya could hate her for withholding the truth about her father for so long.
It was starting to take too long, and now that she knew without a doubt that she was in love with him, that she was ready to build a future with him, she decided the right time would never exist.
Good news and bad news.
So three nights after the ambush, she curled beside him in the bedroom they shared, placed a hand over his, and whispered, “I need to tell you something.”
Good news first.
Hopefully, he thought it was good news.
Fedya shifted slightly, tracing her face with his fingers. His thumb lingered over the curve of her mouth. “What is it?”
It was now or never.
