Page 70 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
Still, he waits a beat longer. Then he nods. “Get dressed. We’ll go in an hour.”
***
The ride into the city is quiet, but not tense. I rest my hand over the small curve of my belly, watching the buildings blur past the window. Kion sits beside me in the back, his thigh pressed against mine, one hand resting loosely on his knee. He hasn’t said much. But every few minutes, his eyes flick to me, then to the street.
The store is tucked off the main road, modern, well lit, filled with things I never thought I’d get to look at.
I step inside and freeze.
There’s an entire wall of baby blankets. Strollers lined up like cars in a showroom. Racks of impossibly tiny onesies, each softer than the last.
Kion stays close behind me. Silent. Watchful.
I can’t help myself; I walk to the first row and run my fingers over a blanket that feels like clouds.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, lifting a pair of tiny knit socks. “Kion, look at these.”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance over my shoulder and catch him staring at me, and there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It’s barely there, but it’s real.
I hold the socks up higher, wiggling them between two fingers. “You think our kid’s going to hate us if we make them wear these?”
He snorts in amusement, arms crossed. “I’m not having my kid dressed in pastels.”
“But they’re so cute!”
“And I’m paying, so for the love of Godpleaseput them back.”
I laugh under my breath and keep moving.
I don’t know what it is about the baby aisle. Maybe it’s the pastels. The softness. The innocence. Maybe it’s just being in a place where no one’s bleeding, no one’s angry, and nothing smells like gunpowder.
Whatever it is, I feel lighter here.
I pick up a stroller catalog and flip through it. “Do you have any preferences?” I ask, showing him one with gold trim.
“No.”
I raise a brow. “Not even for safety specs?”
“They’ll be surrounded by four armed men and two bulletproof cars. I think we’re fine.”
I snort. “Right. Of course.”
Still, he comes up beside me as I move through the store. I don’t see him pick anything up. He doesn’t linger over clothes or compare bottle sets.
When I find a mobile with little velvet stars and turn to show him, it’s already gone from my hands and in the arms of a store clerk.
He buys everything I so much as glance at.
I nudge him with my shoulder. “You know, you don’t have to buy the whole store.”
He grins, full of teeth. “Says who? I’ve got the card for it. Besides, spoiling you is good for my reputation.”
I catch him looking at me again when I pause at the shelf of pacifiers. I pick one up—ivory, shaped like a daisy—and roll it between my fingers.
Kion’s watching like he doesn’t understand what he’s feeling.
