Page 59 of Sinful Blaze

“Yeah, well, that’s my baby inside you.”

Pasha’s gaze is glued to the road. Mine, however, studies his face to see if he meant what he said. I know our baby is important to him and all, but this feels like a bridge too far.

“I can’t afford a new car,” I finally admit, slumping back in my seat.

He’s silent. I figure that’s the end of that, when he breaks his silence with, “Boris will drive you to work until we get you a new one.”

I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but I also shouldn’t let this man shower me with so many gifts. He pays for my food, I’m suspicious he’s paid for all my new clothing, and he’s put me up in his penthouse—which I’m pretty sure he’s also paying for. When he’s covering everything, what’s to stop him from asking me to start, y’know… uncovering myself?

As if you’d complain. That flutter-kicking in your stomach didn’t happen by magic.

“I really like my car as it is.”

Again, that vein in his jaw tics for a second or two. But then we’re in the drive-thru of the smoothie shop and he relaxes for the sake of the barista, who calls him by name and hands over an order with a beaming smile. He ordered ahead?

“Fine. We’ll get it fixed, too.” He hands me the smoothie. “But you’re only driving it after it’s thoroughly checked, and only when someone is available to follow you.”

“Why even have anyone follow me at all? I never go anywhere but work and home.”

“Because the rest of the world is unpredictable. And you’re carrying the future leader of our family’s Bratva. Any one of my soldiers will follow you to fucking Tibet if they need to.”

I sip on the smoothie to hide my pout. I don’t exactly love being under so much constant surveillance, or being valued for what’s growing inside me. Makes me feel like a mule.

“I hear Tibet is beautiful,” I grumble to myself between sips.

I definitely don’t expect the chuckle next to me.

Or the hand palming heavy on my thigh.

I use the next sip as a cover for the heated gasp I almost let out. Not that I’m in any kind of mood for this impossible man, but… well, sue me if I’m reminded of what I saw this morning in the bathroom. What I heard.

Pasha doesn’t say anything more. Just drives me to work, caresses my thigh with his thumb, and gives no indication that he knows my little secret.

Figures. But that’s okay with me.

It’s better for both of us if the walls between us stay right where they are.

20

DAPHNE

The strange, turbulent car ride with Pasha leaves me with jitters for most of the morning. I’m finally rediscovering my ability to be productive at work when my phone buzzes.

It’s Dad. Weird.

“I need you to do something for me,” Stewart Hamish blurts the second I answer.

“And a hello to you, too.”

“Find out everything you can about this Pasha you’re seeing. Pasha Chekhov.”

My stomach flips, and it’s not my baby doing the somersaults. Mother. I’d foolishly hoped she would keep some information to herself, or maybe not even pay any mind to the second half of my pregnancy equation, but clearly, that’s not the case. Why wouldn’t she follow us and put two and two together? It’s painfully on brand for her to make my life exponentially harder.

But I haven’t spoken to her since our disastrous lunch at the club, so I very incorrectly assumed she didn’t care—or notice—that I got swept away by the same man who… What did he do, again?

“Daphne? Did you hear me?”

I blink back to reality. “And why would I do that?”

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