Page 34 of Sinful Bride

I’ll take it. Just like how I know she’ll take the gallery.

Not just because it’s her passion and her life’s work. But because deep down, underneath her sorrows and her stresses, she’s a woman made of fire.

And she’s ready to watch the world burn.

13

DAPHNE

“You said there will be guards there?”

Pasha nods, stealing a concerned glance my way. “As always. Did you get another text?”

My phone feels incredibly heavy in my hands. I don’t want to look at it. I already made that mistake this morning while getting ready for Taty’s first check-up appointment.

Now, I’m constantly looking in the rearview mirror, worried that someone is following us.

Someone other than Pasha’s men, that is.

“I can’t figure out how they keep getting my number.” I swallow back the huge lump in my throat that loves to form whenever I’m frustrated. Or terrified. Right now, I’m a little of both. “I swear to you, I haven’t given this one out to anyone but you and your family, my sister, and now, Aubrey.”

“And Aubrey is good people.” Pasha rubs his jaw in thought. “I had her vetted on every front. ” He glances at me again. “Would you feel better if I had her audited again?”

I feel like shit for wanting that. But I feel even worse every time a new text from Conrad or Brittany pops up. “Yes, please.”

“Done.” He reaches for my hand. “Listen to me, Daphne: I’ve got you. You and Tatyanna. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. No one fucks with my family.”

It should calm me. It does—kinda.

But deep in the marrow of my bones, that anxiety lingers. I’m still on edge. Still wondering if Conrad will be just around the corner—any corner—waiting to pounce on me and take what he wants. He’s done it before, and even after losing his career to Pasha’s violent “message,” he still won’t give up.

The worst part is, he has help. I don’t understand it. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how any woman can support the actions of her so-called “fiancé” as he hunts down another woman.

“We’re here.”

I’m so lost in my own thoughts that I don’t register Pasha parking us at the clinic until he says something. I’m slow to get out of the car, while he easily goes around and unlatches Taty’s carrier from the back seat.

One thing I’ll never, ever complain about: Pasha carrying that heavy thing. I can do it, but holy crap, is it bulky and awkward and a strain on the arm. He makes it look so easy.

Pasha checks us in at the front desk, then leads us to the elevators to the third-floor office. I follow along, begging my heart rate to chill the hell out.

I’m actually excited for this visit. Tatyanna is officially one week old. I snap a few pictures of her in the carrier for her baby book, then take one of Pasha smiling down at her.

“Chekhov?” a nurse asks as we emerge from the elevator.

“That’s us.” Pasha picks up the carrier and wraps his free arm around my waist to nudge me forward.

We’re all small talk with the doctor, who coos at Taty and praises her healthy appearance, movement, et cetera. But when she weighs Taty, she frowns.

My stomach sinks.

“So far, this is my only point of concern.” Dr. Bradshaw places Taty back in the carrier and makes a few notes on the clipboard. “You said she’s breastfeeding?”

“Exclusively.” My mouth feels dry. “I know how important it is for her to receive natural nutrition. And for the bonding, of course.”

“Of course.” She gestures for us to take a seat and does the same on the exam chair. “How’s that going? Any pain or discomfort?”

Keep yourself together. I already feel my eyes grow hot with tears I really, really do not want to shed. And that stupid lump is back in my throat.

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