Evgeni kept his hand outstretched across the table. Kept his gaze leveled on the face he knew so well, but which he’d never seen bearing this emotion. She looked defeated. And defeated was the last thing in the world he wanted his warrior queen to be. “Nadezhda.”

She shifted, but she didn’t lift her gaze.

He did. Toward his brother, asking a silent question with a swing of his head toward the women. He didn’t want anyone to overreact if he dared move over to her, but he had to be near her now. Had to touch her. Had to see her eyes.

Zivon nodded. He must be judging him, them—he must be—but he made no comment. Just exchanged a few gestures with the navy men still in the room, giving him space to round the table. Drop to his knees before her.

He touched a weak hand to her chin. “Look at me, my love.” He’d let his words drift back into Russian. At least then Zivon would be the only one to understand them. “Please.”

Slowly she lifted her lids, and he saw what he thought he never would.

Tears.

His fingers moved to cup her cheek. “Is it true?” In all their talk of women not being trapped in the home, of the state being the proper institution for a child to be raised by, he’d never anticipated this. This quickening inside him at the thought of a child—their child—growing in the womb of the woman he loved.

But what about her? Did she want a baby? With him? Now? She must, at least in part, if her first instinct had been to protect it. Right?

“Dorogoy.” She leaned into his hand, breath heaving. “I faced down the enemy on the battlefield without flinching. But this . . . this terrifies me.”

“I know. But you’re not alone. I’m with you. I’m not going anywhere. We can go home, tell our superiors how the flu interfered with the mission, but all else is well here. Yes?”

She huffed out a breath and looked ready to roll her eyes. But she was a Russian soldier. She knew when to accept defeat. Or, at the very least, when to cut one’s losses and run, leaving only burned ground behind them for the enemy. She nodded.

“And then . . .” He settled his other hand on one of her wrists, still wrapped around her middle. “Then we do as we planned. We make a life for ourselves.”

“But I don’t want the life we planned.” She squeezed her eyes shut but only for a second. When she opened them again, her gaze held his. Too warm to be speaking a farewell. He hoped. “I want . . . I want to love our child. I don’t know how to be a mother, but I have to try. I want to try.”