Eight days shouldn’t do this to a person. It’s ridiculous. It’s hormonal. It’s—
He looks up.
Our eyes lock across thirty feet of herb gardens and culinary stations.
My stomach does a somersault, followed by a double pike with extra points for nausea.
“Mrs. Belov,” Anya murmurs beside me, “are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”
What a question. No, I’m not alright. I’m pregnant with a mafia boss’s baby that his mother wants to keep secret. while recovering from a kidnapping and car crash and I might be slightly in love with my fake husband who hasn’t called for eight days.
“Just hungry,” I whisper.
Alya spots me next and practically launches from her chair. “Bella! Papa brought us presents! Look!”
She waves a massive LEGO set in the air like it’s the Olympic torch.
The commotion draws everyone’s attention. Nikolai offers a polite nod. Lev’s eyes narrow slightly, like he’s assessing my condition from across the room. And Konstantin—
He stands.
In one fluid motion, he rises and moves toward me. Not walking. Stalking. Like a man with purpose.
I grip my crutches tighter. Remind myself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t think about the test hidden in your room. Don’t think about the cells dividing inside you. Don’t—
“Bella.”
His voice is lower than I remember. Richer. He stops just short of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. My traitorous heart skips.
“You look…” he pauses, eyes tracking from my face down to my flat shoes and back up, lingering just briefly on the soft lavender wrap dress Anya helped me into, “healthy.”
Healthy?Healthy?Eight days, and he goes withhealthy?
“You look jet-lagged,” I reply. The snark flows automatically.
His mouth twitches. “May I?”
Before I can answer, he’s taking my elbow, supporting my weight on one side as Anya silently retreats. Heat radiates from his palm through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“I can walk,” I protest weakly.
“I know.” His grip doesn’t loosen. “But these stone paths are uneven. I wouldn’t want to undo Dr. Katya’s work.”
The name hits like a hammer.
Dr. Katya.
I swallow. Hard. Does he know?
Has Yelena told him?
No. His eyes are calm. Focused. If he knew I was carrying what might be the next heir to his criminal empire, he wouldn’t be this… steady. Right?
He guides me forward, careful with each step I take. Every shift of my weight sends tiny shockwaves up my leg, but his arm is firm, warm, like scaffolding holding up a building I no longer trust.
“So,” he says casually, “I saw your artwork.”
Oh God. The butterfly.
