"You okay?" Zakhar's voice comes from beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. A grounding touch that's become as natural as breathing.
"Yeah," I say, and mean it. "Just... taking it in."
We've been doing this once a week since I decided to keep the bakery. Coming by, watching from a distance. Making sure it's thriving without me drowning in it.
It was Zakhar's idea. Keep the business, hire proper management, turn it into something sustainable. A legacy forour child, or children, if Zakhar gets his way, but not something that consumes me.
"Your aunt would be proud," he says quietly.
"You think so?"
"I know so. You didn't let it die. You saved it. Just differently than you planned."
The baby kicks, hard enough that I wince. Zakhar's hand immediately slides to my belly, pressing where our son is doing gymnastics.
Our son. The confirmation came three months ago, and Zakhar has been insufferable ever since. Protective, possessive, constantly touching my stomach like he can't quite believe he's real.
"He's active today," he murmurs.
"He's always active. I think he gets it from you."
"Good. Strong like his mother. Stubborn like his father."
"God help us."
He laughs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Ready to go? Charlotte's expecting us for lunch."
"In a minute."
I take one more look at the bakery. At the success that came from letting go, from accepting help, from accepting I couldn't do it all alone.
At the life I almost missed because I was too stubborn to see another way.
Then I turn away, Zakhar's hand finding mine automatically, and we walk back to the car.
Our house is quiet when we arrive. Zakhar has been working from home more, handling Bratva business from his office while staying close to me.
Overprotective doesn't begin to cover it. But I don't mind as much as I probably should.
I settle on the couch with a book, feet propped up because my ankles are swelling again. Zakhar disappears into the kitchen, returning with water, fruit, and that look that says he's about to fuss over me.
"I'm fine," I say before he can start.
"You're six months pregnant. Let me take care of you." He raises one perfectly arched brow in challenge.
"You're always taking care of me,” I state.
"That's the point of being your husband."
He sets the food on the coffee table and settles beside me, pulling my feet into his lap. Then he starts massaging them, hitting exactly the right pressure points.
I moan despite myself. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"Being this good at everything I enjoy."
"I'm not good at everything. I am good at what I enjoy. And I enjoy taking care of what’s mine."
