Page 78 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan
His eyebrows shoot up. “Angry? At what?”
“This. The baby. The complication.”
“No.” He shakes his head, emphatic. “Never.”
“But it’s a mess,” I whisper. “Your plans, my career—this changes everything.”
“It changes nothing that matters.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist again, the gesture almost unconscious. “Plans can be adjusted.”
I want to believe him. I want to forget the last few hours—the gala, my family’s betrayal, Trifon’s manipulation—and just sink into the strange comfort of his presence. But I can’t.
“You used me tonight,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. “You knew my family would be there, and you used me to make a point.”
He doesn’t deny it. “Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his eyes on our joined hands. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That you’d choose them.” He looks up, meeting my gaze. “That, given the chance to prepare, you’d decide to go back to them.”
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest in a way Trifon rarely is. And the worst part? I’m not sure if he’s wrong.
“I wouldn’t have,” I say, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Not after everything.”
He doesn’t argue, just lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. The gesture is so tender, so unlike him, that my throat tightens.
“Rest,” he says. “We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Despite everything, I sleep.
***
Morning brings discharge papers, prescriptions, and stern warnings from Dr. Korov. The bleeding has slowed tospotting, and the cramps have reduced to a dull ache. The baby—our baby—is holding on.
Trifon helps me into the car with gentle hands, as if I might shatter if handled too roughly. In the light of day, his face shows the strain of the night—stubble darkening his jaw, shadows beneath his eyes, a weariness I’ve never seen in him before.
“You didn’t sleep,” I observe as we pull away from the clinic.
“I’ll sleep when you’re settled.”
The drive is quiet. I watch the city pass, thoughts tumbling over each other like stones in a river. A baby. A Bratva prince or princess, with my green eyes and Trifon’s dark hair.
A child I never planned for, with a man I never chose.
And yet, my hand drifts to my stomach, protective. Maternal. Already feeling a connection to the tiny flicker of life inside me.
When we reach the house, Trifon insists on carrying me despite my protests. “Doctor’s orders,” he says, scooping me up. “Bed rest means no walking.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not what he meant when he said rest.”
“I’m not taking chances.”
He carries me upstairs to my bedroom and sets me down on the mattress with impossible gentleness, then busies himself arranging pillows behind my back, pulling blankets over my legs.
“I’m not an invalid,” I protest weakly.
