Sinful Blaze (Chekhov Bratva Book 1)
Chapter 8

I can count on zero fingers how often in my life I’ve chased down a woman.

First time for everything, I suppose.

Maybe that’s why I feel a rush of adrenaline instead of irritation as I rush after Daphne, not giving a fuck who I bump into or offend on my way.

I finally catch her elbow through the double doors. “Stop.”

She turns, flustered and out of breath. “I-I have t-to go, sorry! I have to—” Her voice dies when she tries to tear out of my grasp and her bag slips off her shoulder and upends. We both reach for it at the same time and the jostling knocks a smaller bag out of it.

“Here, let me get that⁠—”

“No!”

I bend down to pick up the baggie, intending to just give it back to her. But when I see what it’s holding, I freeze.

I look at it.

At her.

At it.

At her.

Say something. You need to say something.

But what the fuck am I supposed to say?

“Congratulations”?

“Who’s the father”?

“Are we having a boy or girl”?

Oh, fucking hell.

The valet pulls my car up right behind where Daphne is standing, staring at me with utter terror in her eyes. That bothers me. She shouldn’t be afraid of me. What kind of man does she think I am?

The kind who just stares at her without saying a single word while holding her pee stick like a fucking creep—that’s what kind of man she thinks I am.

But there aren’t words for this situation. None that I can think of right now, at least. So I do the next most rational thing…

And shove her in the back of my car.

Surprisingly, she doesn’t utter a single protest. I expect her to shout or even scream at me to let her go, but instead, she just sits there and waits for me to grab my keys from the valet and slide into the driver’s seat. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t try to get out, either.

I should say something. Instead, I pull us out of the parking lot and start driving.

To where? Fuck if I know.

“Did you eat?” I finally ask.

Daphne stares at the dashboard. “I had a salad.”

“So no.”

Now she looks at me. “What?”

“A real meal provides calories, protein, nutrients. What that place serves is two pieces of lettuce and a carrot even a rabbit wouldn’t touch.”

She snorts a small laugh. I take that as a win.

Then I take her somewhere we can talk. Some place to break the ice, catch up, answer a few pressing questions like, “What the actual fuck?”

Daphne’s eyes widen when we pull into the parking lot of VitaSmooth, a smoothie bar Sofiya is obsessed with. My sister swears it’s going to take over the world by storm.

I wouldn’t know and couldn’t care less. But I do know that vitamins and nutrients are important for pregnancy and there’s no way in hell that Chez Delacourte served Daphne enough of either to nourish our baby.

Her baby, I correct in my head. We don’t know anything for certain yet.

I hold the car door open for her and she slinks out. When we step inside the smoothie shop, we’re accosted by this thick smell of wheatgrass and ginger. I jerk my chin toward the menu hanging over us. “Pick what you want.”

“I, uh—okay. Okay.” Daphne blushes and turns to the cashier. “I’ll have a small⁠—”

“Large,” I interrupt.

She side-eyes me. There’s that fire. The first flickers of it I’ve seen in a while. “Medium⁠—”

“Large.”

She sighs. “Large Açai-cado Avalanche.”

“With a VitaPack,” I order the cashier. “Add the prenatal mix as well.”

Daphne sucks in a deep breath. I’m pushing her buttons. Good. I’d rather that than the stunned, terrified silence she’s been stuck in.

The cashier darts a curious glance between us but otherwise doesn’t say anything. We grab our drinks and head back to the car. I don’t think either one of us wants to have the much-needed conversation in public. Or at all. So we slide into the Charger, settle into the leather seats, and brood in silence.

“Thank you.” Daphne wraps her lips around the straw again and now that I’m watching her do it, I’m all sorts of distracted by thoughts of those same lips doing that same thing to… something else.

“Not a problem.”

“I hate the way prenatals taste like freaking horse pills. Makes me gag every time I try to take them. I keep hearing these smoothies are good for you, but I mean, twelve dollars a day? Just for some stupid vitamins?”

“Worth every penny if it means keeping your baby safe and healthy.”

Daphne flushes and looks away. I scowl. She isn’t getting off that easily.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

She sighs. “I don’t know. I mean, I wanted to.”

“But?”

“But I’ve only just found out myself. I’m still…” She waves her fingers in the air in a little circle. “Still trying to wrap my head around it, I guess. It still doesn’t feel real.”

“How far along are you?”

She looks down at the lid of her cup. “Four months,” she mutters.

I wince. Rub my jaw. Try to replace the right words that aren’t How the FUCK did you think you could keep that from me?

“But you had a test in your purse.”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I did.”

“How is it possible to go so long without knowing?”

She cringes and withers like she wishes she could disappear from my sight. “Sometimes, stress can make a period vanish, just like pregnancy. After the breakup and everything at the gallery, and my bosses, and the move⁠—”

“You moved?”

“Yeah. About a month ago. Had to juggle that with work and my family, and I just… I was under a ton of stress. I’ve had it happen plenty of times before. So it just never occurred to me.”

“What tipped you off?”

“Who,” she corrects. She takes another long sip. “Hazel is the one who put two and two together. I hadn’t been using the pads in the bathroom, but I’d also been battling nausea a lot. When I complained last week about needing to buy a new bra, she came home with a box of pregnancy tests.”

Daphne offers me a shy, regretful smile. “I’m sorry to break the news to you like this. I really didn’t plan on running into you.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Now, she really smiles. Something in my chest boils uncomfortably.

The moment passes. She grows serious again and slurps on her straw. “I’ll take a paternity test, if you want. Just to make sure everything’s super clear. I mean, it’s, ah…” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s definitely yours, to be honest. I haven’t been with anyone since we met, and I hadn’t slept with anyone for at least two months prior.”

I frown. “What about Ewing?”

“Conrad? Right.” Daphne rolls her eyes. “Too busy dancing the horizontal mambo with his mistress.”

Makes sense.

Doesn’t do anything to calm my racing heart.

I drive us out of the VitaSmooth parking lot. Our next stop isn’t far.

Daphne sighs. The look of defeat on her face as she stares at the new building in front of us is not one I expected. Nor do I like it.

“I get it. Really. I can’t expect you to believe me.”

“It’s not that.” I do my best to ignore the glowing sign of the public fertility clinic advertising abortion services. “I do believe you.”

Her mouth twists into a wry smile. “You don’t think I sleep around with half the city?”

“Fuck no. Who the⁠—”

“My mother.”

Ah. Of course. The family drama causing the sudden wave of rubbernecking at the restaurant club. “Just because she’s your mother doesn’t mean she’s right to say that.”

Daphne sniffles. Shit, is she crying? But instead of bursting into tears, she only nods. “Thanks.”

I rub my jaw again. “Look, it’s not for me. I believe you. But the, uh… the company I work for… they need the paperwork proving it’s mine. Plus the inheritance, naming of my heir, et cetera…”

“What, are you some hotshot CEO or something?” Daphne chuckles.

I look at her. The heavy silence does the talking.

After it gets too awkward, she shuffles out of the car. I follow her inside.

She stiffens as I step up behind her at the counter. I don’t interrupt her conversation with the receptionist. Just shadow her and wait.

Which is how I hear that she gives a fake name. “Sara Harcourt.”

“And yours?” the receptionist asks, peering over at me.

“Jacob Harcourt,” I say.

She nods and scribbles it down. We both step aside and take seats in an empty corner of the waiting room.

Daphne lofts a brow at me. I shrug my shoulders in response. “We’re happily married.”

She laughs miserably, then plucks up a magazine and starts thumbing through the pages. I don’t think she’s actually reading anything, because she asks me without looking up, “So… was that a yes to the ‘hotshot CEO’?”

“Something like that.”

“Old money or nouveau riche?”

“Old World old money.”

“Ah, right. Pre- or post-Soviet Russia?”

I blink at her. “Does it matter?”

It’s Daphne’s turn to shrug. “I’m just curious. If this really is your baby, then I’d like to be able to tell him or her all about their heritage. Plus, you don’t have an accent.”

I nod, begrudgingly impressed. “My ancestors were friends with the kinds of people it was convenient for us to be friends with. When it became less convenient, we moved to America and started fresh.”

Daphne falls silent. But she nods thoughtfully and continues to skim through the magazine. Apparently, that’s all the information she wanted from me.

I’m about to lob my own inquisition when the nurse steps into the room and softly calls for “the Harcourts.” Daphne plops the magazine down, stands up, and follows the nurse out without a bit of hesitation.

I’m impressed by her composure. She’s as defiant here as she was in an exclusive restaurant-meets-country-club where they charge fifty dollars for a fucking salad. I’m guessing Mommy Dearest was footing the bill.

Which means Daphne has a history.

Not that I doubt her. I meant it when I said it: this paternity test is less for me and far more for my company… and the Bratva.

They’ve been chomping at the bit, demanding I get married and produce heirs to maintain the family line. My original plan was to marry Mak off to some beauty he genuinely likes, then name one of his kids as my heir.

But now? Now that I might have a child of my own?

Things are about to get very fucking complicated.

And so it’s somewhat of a relief to see that the mother of my potential child can stand her ground and then some.

We both give blood to a nurse with the bedside manner of a fucking gravedigger. She drones rapid-fire about results being sent by mail within a week, about follow-up appointments, yada yada. I tune it all out.

When she’s done, Daphne tries to slip out ahead of me. I sigh, count to ten, then charge after her.

In the parking lot, we recreate this afternoon’s earlier dance.

“Stop.” I pin her against the side of the car so she can’t pull away. “Look at me.”

She doesn’t. So I tip her face up with a finger tucked under her chin.

As I do, I can’t help but sigh. I want to breathe fire and brimstone in her face, to show her that she’s gotten herself into deep water and I’m the only one who can get her out. I want to scare her into submission, because that’s what I do best. What I’ve always done best.

But something in her eyes stops me.

It’s not that she looks afraid, though she does. It’s not that she seems fragile and on the edge of shattering, though I’d bet every penny I’ve ever earned that that’s exactly how she feels.

It’s that she looks like she expects my fury. She’s cowering before I land any kind of blow.

So instead of pouring it on thick…

I just exhale.

“Just… relax. Take some time to just process this. And when the test results come in…” My fingers instinctively brush along the curve of her jaw and already, I want more. So much more. “You’re not doing this alone. If this baby is mine, I’m not going to run for the hills. I’m going to be right here, by your side, through everything. I won’t allow you to raise them alone.”

Daphne’s eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

And then, to my surprise, she hugs me. Tight. Her face buries into my chest and I’m overwhelmed by her scent, her touch, the way she feels pressed against me even in this moment of raw vulnerability.

Then, reluctantly, she peels away. She rubs the heels of her hands into her eyes to hide the tears, straightens up, and pulls her mask back into place.

“Thank you, Pasha,” she says curtly, her voice thick and unreadable.

I nod and we stand looking at each other for one more moment. Then I help her into the passenger seat, shut the door for her, and grab my phone to send a text to the family group thread.

PASHA: We might have a problem.