"Talk to me," I say finally.
He doesn't answer right away. Just pulls into an empty parking lot and kills the engine. Then he turns to face me, eyes intense.
"I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"She's going to be beautiful like you." His hand moves from my thigh to my belly, spreading wide. "And some day, some boy is going to look at her the way I look at you. And I'm going to have to not kill him."
I can't help the small laugh that escapes. "That's what you're worried about?"
"Among other things." His other hand joins the first, both palms warm through my shirt. "She's going to have you wrapped around her finger. And me. We're going to spoil her completely."
"You're already planning to spoil her and she's not even born."
"Yes." No apology in his voice. Just certainty. "She's mine. Both of you are mine."
***
Back at the estate, I stand in our bedroom staring at my closet. Dimitri and Anya are coming for dinner in an hour and I havenothing to wear that doesn't make me look like I swallowed a basketball.
I pull out a fitted black dress—one of the maternity ones Pyotr insisted on buying. The fabric is soft, expensive, designed to drape over pregnant curves rather than hide them.
In the mirror, I barely recognize myself. Six months ago I was a college student. Now I'm Mrs. Maksimova, heavily pregnant, preparing to host dinner for the Pakhan.
My hands smooth over the swell of my belly, feeling Katya shift and roll inside me.
"Beautiful."
I don't jump this time when he appears. His reflection materializes behind mine, still in his dress shirt and slacks from the doctor's appointment. He moves close, hands settling on my waist before sliding up to cup my swollen breasts.
"I'm huge," I say, but there's less protest in my voice than there used to be.
"You're carrying my daughter." His hands move back down to cradle my bump, and I feel him harden against my lower back. "Nothing more beautiful exists."
His lips find my neck, teeth grazing the spot that always makes me shiver.
The doorbell chimes through the house.
"They're early," I mutter.
He straightens, adjusts himself with zero shame, then guides me toward the stairs with one hand possessive at the small of my back.
Dimitri and Anya arrive with a bottle of wine and warm embraces. Dimitri is imposing as always—tall, broad-shouldered, radiating the kind of authority that makes men twice his size step aside. But his eyes are kind when he takes my hand gently, respectfully.
"You're glowing," he observes.
"She's pregnant," Pyotr says, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice.
"We can see that." Anya pulls me into a careful hug, mindful of my belly. She smells like expensive perfume and winter air. "How are you feeling?"
"Good. Tired." I glance at Pyotr, who's already moved to my side, hand finding my lower back. "He's... attentive."
"Attentive." Anya's lips quirk. "Is that what we're calling it?"
Dinner is laid out in the formal dining room—the long table set with china and crystal, candles flickering. The housekeeper outdid herself: roasted chicken, vegetables, fresh bread still warm from the oven.
Pyotr pulls out my chair, waits until I'm settled before taking his own seat. Throughout the meal, he's exactly as I described—cutting my chicken into smaller pieces without being asked, refilling my water glass, his hand constantly returning to rest on my thigh under the table. Monitoring. Controlling.
