All Chapters of THE LAST SAFE WORD: Chapter 11 - Chapter 18

The jet levelled out somewhere above the Atlantic, and the seatbelt sign went dark.Czar unbuckled, stood, and looked down at me like a king surveying new territory he’d already decided to ruin.“Bedroom. Now.”Two words. No please. No question. Just the same voice he used when he ordered men killed.I should have argued. Should have reminded him I wasn’t cargo.Instead my thighs pressed together under the silk robe he’d wrapped me in after the car, and I stood on shaky legs.He didn’t wait. He took my wrist and pulled me down the narrow corridor to the rear cabin: a bedroom that belonged on a yacht, not thirty-eight thousand feet in the air. King bed, black sheets, dim gold lights, mirrors on three walls.The door locked behind us with a soft, final click.He turned the key twice, slipped it into his pocket.“Safe word still works,” he said, repeating the lie he loved. “But the plane is on autopilot, the pilots are deaf, and we don’t land for six hours. So scream all you want, little

The first week on the island passed like a fever dream.Days bled into each other: sun, salt, sex, sleep.Czar woke me with his mouth between my legs more mornings than not.He cooked barefoot, fed me mango from his fingers, carried me into the ocean when the heat got too heavy.No phones. No news. No Lagos.Just us, the guards who pretended to be invisible, and the baby growing quietly between us.But paradise always has cracks if you look hard enough.It started with the nightmares.I’d wake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, convinced I was back in the cellar he’d once locked me in.He’d pull me against his chest, rock me like a child, whisper promises in Russian until I stopped shaking.“You’re safe,” he’d say.I never believed him.Then came the boat.Every dawn, a sleek white yacht appeared on the horizon, dropped anchor for exactly thirty minutes, then vanished.Supplies, the chef said. Nothing more.But on the eighth morning, I saw something else.A man on the deck. Tall.

The island looked different when we came back.The guards were doubled.The windows were now bulletproof.The ankle chain was gone, but the invisible one felt heavier than ever.Czar hadn’t slept in four days.He stood on the terrace at 3 a.m., shirtless, gun on the table, staring at the dark ocean like it had personally betrayed him.I watched from the doorway, one hand on the small curve that had finally started to show.He hadn’t touched me since the rescue.Not like before.Not even a kiss that lasted longer than a second.He touched my stomach every hour, like he needed proof we were still real.But the rest of me he treated like glass about to shatter.I walked out barefoot, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and sat beside him.Silence for a long time.Then: “I killed my brother today.”His voice was flat. Dead.I didn’t ask how.I didn’t need to.“I put three bullets in his chest and watched him sink,” he continued. “He smiled the whole way down.”I reached for his hand.

I didn’t open the paternity kit for three days.It sat on the nightstand like a loaded grenade.Every time I reached for it, my hand shook so hard I had to pull back.Czar never came home.No calls. No messages. Just radio silence and an island full of guards who wouldn’t meet my eyes.On the fourth morning, the doctor arrived.Older woman. Swiss. Face like she’d seen every version of hell and still showed up to work.She set her bag down, looked at the unopened kit, then at me.“Mrs. Aslanov, we can do this two ways. Cheek swab now, results in six hours. Or I come back when you’re ready.”I laughed: wet, broken.“I’m never going to be ready.”She waited.I rolled up my sleeve.She swabbed the inside of my cheek first, then laid out the second swab.“The alleged father needs to provide a sample too,” she said gently.“He’s… unavailable.”She nodded like that wasn’t the first time she’d heard it.“Then we can use the fetal cell-free DNA from your blood. Higher accuracy. Twenty ccs and