Page 28 of Sinful Blaze

“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.

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