He moves his hand from my forehead to my cheek. He strokes my skin with his thumb.
"You smell different," he murmurs.
I freeze.
"What?"
He leans in. He buries his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply.
"Your scent," he says, his voice dropping to a low growl. "It’s... sweeter. Heavier."
He pulls back. His eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated. He looks like the wolf catching a scent on the wind.
"Are you hiding something from me, Ivy?"
"No," I whisper. "Nothing."
He stares at me. The silence stretches, taut and agonizing. He knows. He doesn't knowwhat, but he knows the chemistry has shifted.
He moves his hand down. over my throat. Over my chest.
He rests his hand on my stomach.
I stop breathing.
Does he feel it? Can he feel the microscopic change in the cells? Can he feel the second heartbeat that hasn't even started beating yet?
His hand is heavy. Warm. Possessive.
"You’ve been tired," he says slowly, thinking out loud. "You’ve been eating bland food. You’ve been moody."
His eyes snap up to mine.
The realization hits him like a lightning strike.
I see it happen. The shock. The calculation. And then... the darkness.
"Ivy," he warns, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. "Tell me."
I can't lie. Not with his hand on my womb. Not when he’s looking at me like that.
"I..." I choke on the words. Tears well up in my eyes. "I took a test."
He goes perfectly still.
"And?"
"It’s positive."
He doesn't move. He doesn't breathe.
For a terrifying second, I think he’s going to hit me. Or leave. Or scream.
Then, he drops to his knees.
Silas Vane, the King of New York, the man who burned a shipyard to the ground, falls to his knees on the bathroom floor in his three-thousand-dollar suit.
He presses his face against my stomach.
