Page 55 of Sinful Blaze

But just as I’m about to peel my hand away, I feel something. A flutter. A twitch. Life.

And so I leave my hand right where it is.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. I know I look like a damn fool, but there’s no chance in hell I can bury these feelings down in the same dark place the rest of my emotions go. This shit is too strong, too big, too formless and life-changing to be sealed up in that cave in my chest.

I have a child. Right there, inches away from my touch, is my daughter.

My eyes float up to meet Daphne’s. She hasn’t breathed much more than I have since we ended up plastered together like this. And just like me, she doesn’t look like she wants the moment to end.

I don’t know what I’m doing here—but it’s beyond obvious that she doesn’t, either.

My fingers slowly edge the hem of her shirt up until I feel her warm, bare skin now pressed to my palm. It takes a shit ton of control not to growl my approval. But goddamn, something like heat spreads from the simple contact. I want so much more.

Another flutter pulls my attention back where it should be. As if our daughter is scolding me for straying.

I glance up to check the time—and that’s when I catch the guards watching us a little too closely. There’s nothing wrong with situational awareness, but we’re in my own damn kitchen, for fuck’s sake—this is obviously a safe space and there’s no reason for eight eyes to be so completely transfixed on my woman.

My grip on her baby bump tightens. Not enough to harm either of them, but enough to show these idioty where the territorial line is drawn.

My woman. My child.

“Derzhi svoi chertovy glaza pri sebe.” I keep my voice light for Daphne’s sake, but the message is clear to each of the guards who look away.

Keep your fucking eyes to yourself.

“Hm?” Daphne asks me.

“You should get ready for work,” I lie. “You don’t want to be late.”

It might be my imagination, but she seems almost reluctant to slip away. I wouldn’t complain one bit if she decided to call in and stay right here, pressed to me, for the rest of the day. Fuck, she should do that. I’d feel a lot better knowing exactly where she is and what she’s doing firsthand.

Unfortunately, we both have things to do.

And my duties start the second she’s out of earshot.

When she’s gone, I growl, “Keep your weapons covered at all times, especially around her.”

Boris is the first to balk. “At all times? This is a Bratva, sir. We’re going to carry guns. Everyone knows this.”

“In case your wandering eyes didn’t notice, that is my baby growing inside my woman.” My voice lowers into a dangerous snarl. I don’t like to be challenged, and I sure as fuck won’t take such bullshit from underlings like these. “Guns stress her out. Stress harms both of them. This shouldn’t be so fucking difficult for you to understand.”

“We understand,” Dem interjects. He buttons his coat around his waist and his gun disappears from sight. “Not a problem, pakhan.”

That solves that. But there is something nagging at the back of my mind. Boris is right about something: this is a Bratva. Our business is in guns, ammunition, the tools of death. We are proud of this. We thrive on this.

And yet here I am, putting some woman’s needs at the forefront of everything, including how we operate.

What the hell is happening to me?

19

DAPHNE

Things have been going so well.

I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

I turn the key in the ignition once more. And once more, the car whines and shudders but refuses to start.

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