Page 53 of Sinful Blaze

“It’s not a love nest.”

“Does she have her own room?”

I glance at the only other bedroom door down the hall. “… No.”

“Did you turn the second bedroom into a fully furnished nursery for your baby with the hopes that she’ll see how thorough you’re being?”

“Have you been going through my accounts again?”

I can hear Mak’s smirk through the phone. “Let me guess: if she were to walk into that kitchen right now, she’d find it fully stocked with all the best prenatal foods your Google research has come up with. All organic, too.”

“It’s important to be prepared.” He’s really starting to grate on my nerves.

“You literally created a love nest. ‘Look at me, I’m the best mate, I made you a nest with food and shiny rocks!’ Penguins mate with more subtlety than you.”

“Get to the damn point, man.”

“You made your biggest, bestest love nest to show your intended mate how ideal you are on all the logical terms. But you never once considered that she’s been making her own nest, on her own terms, for the baby she’s carrying. Instead of taking sentimentality into factor, you smashed all over her nest and squawked in her face until she had no choice but to hunker down in yours. So yeah, congrats, you have her right where you want her. But you don’t have her where she wants to be.”

I despise that he might have a point.

“Fine.” I know when to accept defeat, temporary as it may be. “The hell do I do about this now, though?”

“You don’t do anything; time does. But while you wait for the clock to tick in your favor, maybe do your best to make her feel more at home? And that may mean swallowing your pride and letting her put up some of that flowery pink shit girls like. Hide your guns. Make the Bratva life feel more like normal life.”

I sit up. “Hide the guns? Are you?—”

“Nesting, bro. You’re nesting. Please explain to me how leaving guns out in the open makes a safe space for an infant. You want your heir toothing on a shotgun?”

Again, I’m annoyed at how right he is—and that I’ve been overlooking things that should be obvious to me. Call it nerves, call it being distracted by the siren currently asleep in my bed—whatever it is, it’s affecting me in ways I don’t like one fucking bit.

I blow out a puff of air and stare at the ceiling. “I’ll keep you posted.”

I could go back in there. Curl up beside her, hold her close. Make her feel how safe she is with me.

But Mak might be onto something. In the very least, it wouldn’t hurt to give her some space—and save me the trouble of additional bruises courtesy of weaponized decor.

So I find a few pillows, a throw blanket, stretch out on the couch, and set an alarm for the morning.

I meet Daphne in the bedroom the moment I hear her begin to stir. She might interpret it as being overbearing, but she’ll thank me once she goes out wearing something less… revealing.

Not that I mind. Especially as she stretches with a yawn and her nipples strain against the fabric of her tank top.

“Dobroye utro,” I greet her from the chair by the window.

“Shit!” Daphne yelps, then presses a hand to her eyes and rubs them. “Did you sleep there all night?”

“No.” I won’t misinterpret her question for concern. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually.”

The fact that she sounds confused about that has me worried. Is she not sleeping well? Deprivation isn’t good for her or our daughter. I tuck away those concerns for the doctor and refocus. “Hungry? I made us some breakfast.”

She squints at me, thoroughly confused. “Um, yeah. That sounds amazing.”

I chuckle. “You don’t even know what I made. Or if I’m a good cook.”

“You could hand me a pickle and peanut butter burrito and I’d smash.” Daphne kicks off the covers and rolls up onto her feet. “Stupid pregnancy hormones.”

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