Page 58 of Knocked-up Bratva Bride
My instinct screamed at me to run, to laugh it off, to say it was nothing, to shove this all back into the neat little drawer where I kept everything that wasn’t appropriate for a Luxe Nestoffice. But I moved to back away, and the goddamn table caught the backs of my thighs, stopping me cold.
He stepped near enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell the faint musk in his cologne. My breath hitched as I tilted my chin up to look at him.
His body didn’t touch mine, but his presence pressed against me like gravity.
And in that moment, I wasn’t the pristine marketing executive with her curated smile and campaign drafts.
I was a woman trapped between honesty and desire, terrified of both, and before I could stop myself, the truth tore from my lips like it had claws.
“I’m pregnant.”
The silence that followed was deafening, with nothing but the sound of my pulse crashing in my ears.
Damien didn’t move.
He stood there, utterly still, his eyes locked on mine like he was trying to x-ray my soul.
I took a shaky breath.
His hand came up, firm fingers curling around my jaw, not roughly, but with a pressure that said,Don’t look away.
His thumb rested just beneath my cheekbone, and I tilted my face toward him until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
I realized he was searching them for the truth, as if he were a detector that could sniff out lies just by looking at someone. The man was full of surprises. Who knew if he could?
But I wasn’t lying.
And the flicker in his gaze that sent a rush of heat and panic through my veins confirmed it.
“You’ll come with me.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no room for a debate. And there was a gut-feeling that there was no escaping him now. Notthe man who could see through my walls like they were glass. Not the man who already owned too many pieces of me to count.
The baby wasn’t the only truth in the room anymore. He was. And if there were a better way to put this, it would be simply to say…that I was screwed.
Chapter 19 – Damien
The foyer swallowed the last light of dusk behind us, and it echoed when Roman closed the doors behind us. Winter came out from the kitchen to greet me, but I ignored her and Elena, who trailed behind me with reluctant steps.
I didn’t have to look back to feel her, or notice the way she lingered near the entrance, clutching her purse and messenger bag like it might shield her from me and the rest of the world.
As if sentiment or softness meant anything here.
The jacket came off my shoulders in a smooth motion, hung over my arm for all of three seconds before I dropped it onto the back of a chair.
I took out my phone and texted Fedor to meet me in my private office with printouts of Elena’s medical reports.
My mind was already moving—past the tension in her breath, past the lingering scent of her perfume, past the weight of whatever the hell was written all over her face.
Because I had more important things to think about, and until I confirmed it, everything else was noise.
Even her.
Especially her.
“Wait here,” I said, voice flat, not bothering to check if she would listen.
I was about to walk deeper into the house when I heard things clatter on the marble floor and, from my periphery, saw her sway.
