Page 139 of Hidden Empire

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking cool,” he agrees. “But you should get used to calling him your husband, you know?”

I swallow a bite quickly. “I should?”

“He already refers to you as his wife,” he points out casually.

My lips part. “He does?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Ever since you got pregnant, when he briefs the men about you for the week, he says ‘my wife’ this, and ‘my wife’ that.”

“Husband,” I try the word out, rolling it around on my tongue. “Hmm, I like it.”

“You should call him that in bed.” He winks.

I laugh through a gasp. “You have a dirty mind, Ivan.”

“Well, when you can’t have sex, joking about it is as close as you get.”

My chuckle dies down. “Ivan, you know I don’t care if you?—”

“Nope,” he chimes, not allowing me to finish. “Never going to happen, sestra.”

“Sestra?”

He grins. “Russian for sister.”

My heart softens. “How do you say brother?”

“Brat,” he says, rolling the R.

“Ugh, too similar to brat. I’ll find a nickname for you, don’t worry.”

Ivan shakes his head. “No rush, we’ve got time.”

I hope we do. I want endless time with my best friend and my husband.

“Do your clothes fit better now, by the way?”

Ugh, so glad he reminded me. “Yes! They’re perfect, thank you again!”

Ivan personally found some old uniforms and sewed elastic in them so that they'd stretch as my stomach started to pop. I only have a tiny little bump right now, but it's growing, and my tailored uniform was not cutting it.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says, shrugging it off.

We’re hoping that since my brothers didn’t hear about the fight class mishap—only that I finally dropped the course—they’ll just assume I put on a few pounds without the constant exercise. For now, there isn’t enough lift in my shirt to make them suspicious at all, so we’re just rolling with it.

“You’re too modest,” I point out, finishing up my treat. Ivan’s is gone now too. “Want to go get a soda?” I ask. Maybe a ginger ale will help me keep my stomach calm. These babies are finicky.

“Sounds good,” he agrees, getting to his feet. We walk in unison, finding the nearest trash can for our garbage.

Just as we approach it, a rumbling of whispers breaks out nearby, loud enough to reach our ears. When we turn, I catch a glimpse of the Lord striding through campus with a mysterious black figure.

“What’s going on?” I ask, throwing away my disposable cup.

“I’m not sure,” Ivan responds cautiously.

Why the hell is the Lord walking around with this grim reaper-looking guy?

We only get a few feet closer when Ivan holds out his arm, prompting me to freeze. “Wait,” he instructs.

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