10 Days to Ruin (Ozerov Bratva Book 1)
10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 31

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

It’s been hell trying not to laugh out loud the whole car ride here. Making it through the rest of this night without cackling might cost me a rib or two.

“C’mon,” I say, tugging Sasha’s arm to drag him up the stairs. “Aren’t you the one who’s always mad at me for being late?”

Inside, a wave of lavender hits me like a Sleepytime Tea grenade. Fake potted ferns flank a row of blue yoga mats. A bulletin board displays stock photos of beatific couples cradling potatoes in swaddles.

And there, at the front of the room, stands “Madame Giana”—a platinum blonde with thick magenta glasses and a Russian accent that sounds like Dracula with a head cold.

Gina doesn’t do anything halfway. God help us all.

The whole plan, as per usual, was her idea. When I’d told her about Sasha’s baby threat—because let’s be real, what else could you really call it?—her eyes had bugged out of her head.

“Does he think you’re an IVF test tube with legs? Is he even AWARE of what pregnancy does to the female body?” she’d crowed in fury.

“I’m guessing he has some idea. Do they teach female reproductive biology in mob boss school?”

Then she’d gotten that telltale wicked gleam in her eye. “They do now.”

From there, everything had come together easily. She borrowed studio space from a friend, went wig shopping, and watched a YouTube video on Method acting so she could “get into character.”

Which, apparently, looks like… this.

“Velcome, vvvelcome, to Breathe, Push, Repeat!” Gina trills, adjusting her wig. It lists violently to the left. “You are here for ze miracle of life, da?”

Sasha’s grip tightens on my waist. “This is your surprise?”

“Like it? Thought we’d practice for our bundle of joy.: I bat my eyelashes. “Gotta make sure you know how to handle labor pains, right?”

His left eye twitches. Good. Precisely the reaction I wanted.

Madame Giana claps to draw our attention. She’s added every single bracelet she owns, so any motion of her arms sounds like a snake made out of aluminum getting repeatedly Tasered.

“Ve begin vit pair bonding. First exercise: empathy bellies.”

Sasha’s already shaking his head. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” I shove a foam gut into his arms from the stack in the corner. The thing’s the size of a beach ball, but Sasha is scowling at it like it’s a live explosive. “Strap it on, Daddy-O.”

I practically skip to the mat. Sasha looks at the thing like it personally offended him.

Then—slowly, reluctantly, but inevitably—he starts to shrug it on.

I really might tear an abdominal muscle keeping my laughter in. The sight of big, bad Sasha Ozerov, dressed to the nines as always in a crisp black shirt and gray suit pants, with a prosthetic baby belly Velcroed to his torso… it’s just too much. I have to turn away so I don’t erupt.

The half-hour that follows is more of the same. Gina—excuse me, Madame Giana—coaches us through synchronized breathing that makes me feel like a beached whale.

She keeps up a running train of commentary in that hideous Transylvanian accent the whole time. “More pelvis integration, Mr. Ozerov! As if you are trying to pass a vatermelon! He-hoo! He-hoo! Breathe, breathe, breathe!”

Sasha’s glare could melt steel beams.

Does the session include “pelvic opening exercises” that wouldn’t be out of place on a porn set? Yes, it absolutely does. Does it involve “partner-assisted stretching” for my adductors and groin? Why, that’s in there, too!

But the true record scratch moment comes later. I’m sticky with sweat—more so from trying to contain my laughter than from the workout itself—when Gina puts on a dangerous smile that I know far too well.

“Last but not least,” she croons, “we assume the birthing position.”

“Oh,” I blurt, “that won’t be⁠—”

“Down!” she screeches. She plants her talons into my shoulder and shoves me to my butt on the yoga mat. Then she turns on Sasha. “And you, Mr. Ozerov… behind. There, there.” She jabs a nail at the space behind my back.

Sasha’s scowl darkens. I wonder if he’s going to outright refuse.

Then, slowly—like a jaguar lowering itself into a bath—he descends to a seat behind me. His thighs bracket my hips. Heat sinks through my jeans.

Gina picks up his hands and tries to put them on my belly. “Hands there. Hold her. Protect her. Protect your baby-to-be.”

But he resists. His hands hover near my waist, a half-inch of very important space separating them from me. “If you don’t touch me, she’ll make us do it again,” I hiss.

He growls. Another moment of wondering if this is all about to blow up in my face.

But then he does it. Presses his palms to my stomach. Gently, devotedly. His breath fans over the nape of my neck the exact same way.

Gentle.

Devoted.

Worship.

To make things even worse, Gina then drops a plastic baby onto my chest. “Skin-to-skin! Bond vit spawn!”

Sasha freezes as he gazes at it over my shoulder. The doll’s painted eyelashes tickle my collarbone. His palm hovers over its lumpy back.

And for one stupid, suspended second, I glimpse it all—us, in some alternate universe. Him pressed against me in a hospital bed, sweat-damp and coaxing me on in proud Russian as a real baby wails. A baby with blue eyes and auburn hair. A little bit of him. A little bit of me.

My throat constricts.

His pinky grazes my neck. “This is absurd,” he whispers.

“It’s working, though.” I tilt my head, catching his gaze. The classroom fades away and all I see is him. “Admit it. You’re picturing me eight months pregnant. Huge. Raging. Demanding blinis at the ass crack of dawn. Then you demanding another five children right away.”

“Never.” His thumb traces the doll’s spine. “I’d want six.”

My heart lurches.

The smell of patchouli and way too much lavender clings to Sasha’s suit as we stumble back onto the sidewalk. Madame Giana’s cackle follows us out the studio door, muffled only when he slams it shut hard enough to rattle the hydrant next to his car.

Neither of us moves to leave.

Instead, both of us stand marooned on the sidewalk, awkwardly twisting in the wind. His hand drifts toward his collar to undo the top button like he’s still suffocating under that foam belly. I watch his throat work—that angry scar, the faint stubble—and think absurdly of rocking chairs. Baby names. Brooklyn brownstones with too many stairs for a stroller, so he’d just pick it up—stroller, baby, mama—and carry us over the threshold himself.

Snap out of it, Ward.

“Hope you took notes,” I mumble, kicking a pebble. “We’ll have a pop quiz later.”

Sasha just stares at the sky.

The streetlight above us buzzes. His keys jingle as he sighs. The sound reignites the phantom weight of his palms on my belly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “You seem… bothered.”

He drags his gaze down to me. As he does, his eyes soften—no, melt—and I see the man from the restaurant again. The one who looked at me like I was both the grenade that will kill him and the pin it came with.

Then he’s stepping back, jaw steeled. “Nothing. I’m fine. Just tired.”

I want to poke, to prod, to pry until he tells me what’s really happening in his head. With a face that beautiful, it’s sometimes hard to imagine him as a real person.

But he is real. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it.

And I know what I just felt in that stupid room. I know he felt it, too.

My phone buzzes with Gina’s victory emojis. Did he puke? Did he cry? Did we win?

I bite back my reply as Sasha steps to the car and opens the door for me. Worse, I want to tell her. He almost acted human.