His. Completely. Irrevocably.
Mrs. Maksimova. Bratva wife. Claimed woman.
And despite how it happened—despite the force, the lack of choice, the overwhelming possession—I don't want to be anywhere else.
8
Pyotr
Ilie in the dark, watching her sleep.
Two weeks married. Two weeks of claiming her body, breeding her constantly, marking her as mine. And now...
Now I'm watching for signs.
Her breasts are fuller. I've spent two weeks worshipping them, memorizing every curve and detail. They've grown. Nipples darker, more sensitive.
Her skin has a glow to it. That pregnancy glow everyone talks about. Like she's lit from within.
And the nausea.
Yesterday morning, she barely touched her breakfast. This morning, when she woke to me inside her, she looked vaguely queasy even as she came apart around my cock.
My hand slides to her stomach, still flat. Still unmarked. But I know. Deep in my bones, I know.
She's pregnant.
Two weeks of obsessive breeding has worked. My seed has taken root. She's carrying my child.
The thought makes my cock harden instantly, pressing against her hip. She stirs, making a soft sound in her sleep, and I force myself to stay still. Let her rest. She's going to need it.
Because if I'm right her body is already working overtime to grow our baby.
***
An hour later, I'm proven correct.
She sits up suddenly, one hand flying to her mouth, face going pale.
"Bathroom," she gasps.
I move fast, lifting her, carrying her to the bathroom. She doesn't even protest, just lets me set her down in front of the toilet before she's retching into it.
I hold her hair back, my other hand rubbing circles on her back while she empties what little is in her stomach.
When she finally stops, she's shaking. Pale. Tears streaming down her face from the violence of it.
"I don't know what's wrong," she whispers, voice hoarse. "I never get sick. This is the third morning—"
"I know what's wrong."
She looks up at me, confused and miserable.
"When was your last period?" I ask, keeping my voice calm despite the triumph roaring through my veins.
She blinks. Thinks. I watch the moment realization hits—her eyes going wide, one hand flying to her still-flat stomach.
"Three weeks ago. Before..." She swallows hard. "Before the wedding."
