Page 28 of Claimed By Desire

She spots me and her eyes go wide. Even backlit by the building behind her, Natalya looks perfect. Her hair’s in a messy bun and she’s in sweats, and I swear to fuck, she’s infinitely more gorgeous than Dasha.

Which is absurd. I’veneverfelt that way about Nat before.

Paris destroyed me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask and she looks like she wants to run away. I step closer and take her arm before she can bolt. “It’s almost midnight, Nat.”

If Dasha exuded sex, worry rolls off Nat like in waves.

Even though this is clearly shady, it’s not a booty call.

The problem is, I don’t know what’s going on.

“I should go home,” she says quickly. “This was really stupid.”

“Hold on a second.” I tighten my grip, not sure why I’m not letting her leave. “Come inside at least.”

“I shouldn’t,” she says.

“You came here for a reason. Come upstairs, have a drink, and tell me what’s going on.”

She looks down at the ground. “I’m getting married tomorrow,” she whispers and when she looks up, there’s a twisted, sad desperation in her expression. “What do you think my husband would say if he knew I was here.”

“He doesn’t have to.” My grip on her relaxed. “Come on, we’ll talk inside.”

She gives in and lets me steer her through the doors.

Chapter 11

Natalya

I’m about to run back home when he appears on the sidewalk behind me.

This was such a bad idea. I never, ever should have come here, and I was about to escape when he showed up. I didn’t even realize he wasn’t inside already, and once he touches my arm and talks to me in that low, commanding voice of his, I knew I was screwed.

Which is how I step into Alex’s penthouse apartment.

It’s immaculate, which isn’t a surprise. He’s a stuck-up perfectionist and a total asshole, and his home reflects that. Everything is chic, modern, and minimalist. There’s no clutter, nothing out of place, and barely any sign that a real human occupies this space.

There’s a big balcony outside overlooking the river with an infinity pool and an outdoor sitting area. He’s got a second floor for the bedrooms, and a spacious living area. We head into his lavish kitchen and he parks me down at the big island before pouring two glasses of wine.

“How’d you sneak out?” he asks, which wasn’t what I expected.

“Enzo falls asleep,” I tell him without thinking.

Alex scowls. “I’ll have to have a talk with him tomorrow.” Then his expression softens. “Or maybe the day after.”

What’s left unspoken is:since tomorrow is my wedding day.

I lift the wine to my lips but stop myself. I nearly take a huge gulp, and I’m honestly desperate to get some alcohol in me right now, but I stop before I drink any.

It’s not good for the baby.

I lower the glass again, hand shaking. God, I’m such a fucking mess. I debated coming here for hours, basically ever since I took those pregnancy tests—plus four more from two other brands, all positive—and I’ve come up with about ten dozens reasons for and against telling him the truth.

Pros: he’s the father, he deserves to know, he might be able to help me.

Cons: he’s a bastard and I’m marrying someone else tomorrow.

---