Page 33 of Sinful Blaze

“I’m sure you are. But are you capable of shutting off all the nagging voices in your head and allowing yourself to do whatever the fuck you want?”

“What’s it to you?” I hate that he seems to know more about me than I’ve let on. I hate that he’s right—I’m constantly eyeing the good stuff while forcing myself to enjoy salads because I’d rather not have to deal with Mother’s nagging over my weight. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re pregnant. With my baby.” Pasha unrolls his silverware and tucks the cloth napkin on his lap with practiced movements. “I promised you I’d take care of you. Apparently, that starts with making sure you don’t starve yourself and our child.”

The waiter returns with platter after platter of appetizers that do, in fact, make my mouth water. Fried ravioli, bruschetta, spinach dip, stuffed mushrooms—I want it all.

Until now, I never got to have any of it.

I glance up at Pasha, who nods for me to dig in. So, against everything I’ve ever been taught since childhood, I do. Starting with the fried ravioli and mozzarella sticks because dammit, I’m a cheese addict.

At one point—somewhere between the spinach dip and our supreme deep dish pizza arriving—Pasha frowns at something over my shoulder. Then he barks something—in Russian, I think—before returning to his own plate.

“What was that about?”

He shrugs it off. “Just needed to remind my men to keep their eyes to themselves.”

I playfully waggle a brow. “Ooh. They gettin’ flirty with the waitress?”

“No. I don’t pay them to ogle you.”

That makes me set my fork down and stare at him. “What? What does that even mean?”

Pasha is completely unbothered by how bothered I am. “It means I do pay them to show you respect as the mother of my child.”

“And so… they’re not allowed to look at me?”

“Not like that.” He tucks into his bruschetta like this is a totally normal conversation. “Not at what’s mine.”

“Excuse me?”

Pasha just continues eating. And looking at me. Which, apparently, he’s allowed to do because he’s the one who fucked a baby into me.

I can’t help it—I actually laugh. “Wow. Okay. What are you, some sort of mob boss?”

He doesn’t answer at first. The clink of silverware and the whooshing of the A/C is all I can hear for a long, long minute.

Finally, Pasha says, “I would like to discuss with you the logistics of hiring bodyguards. Just for work, shopping, basically any time you leave your apartment.”

Cue another bout of laughter. “You can’t be serious.”

One look at his face says he is.

“I mean, there’s no way my bosses will allow it. Or our clients.” I dab my mouth with the napkin just to feel like I’m wiping away the smirk because holy shit, this man is coming on more than a little strong. “They expect a certain level of anonymity and privacy, and we pride ourselves in giving it.”

“Fair enough.” He nods. “Then you can come live with me.”

I nearly spray him with the sip of water I just took.

Pasha sets his fork down and leans back in his chair with a sigh. “I’ll cut right to the chase. Especially since you’ve all but figured things out. You asked me if I was a CEO or something?—”

“I mean, I just guessed from the money you literally burned,” I mumble.

“Right. Well, to answer your question, I’m both. I’m a CEO of a multi-billion dollar defense contract company. And… I’m something else.” He glances at a table full of serious-looking men quietly enjoying their lasagna near us.

I follow his glance. Then I notice the faded tattoo below his ear.

And it all clicks into place.

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