And she thinks I haven’t noticed.
Natalya is good at hiding things from the world, I’ll give her that. Years of surviving the Popov household sharpened her ability to tuck her emotions behind a soft smile and calm eyes. But she’s never been able to hide from me. Not really.
Not her pleasure.
Not her fear.
Not her desire.
And definitely not this.
She keeps smoothing her palms over her dress as we sit down. Keeps taking careful breaths like she’s trying to discipline her own body. Keeps avoiding holding my gaze for too long. And her skin…it’s pale in that specific, clammy way that gives her away instantly.
She is pregnant.
I have known for a while now.
My wife thinks her body belongs only to her—and it does—but I know it as well as my own. I’ve memorized every inch of her. Every sound she makes. Every shift in her breathing. Every subtle change in her scent, her weight, the way she sleeps curled closer to me.
And her body has been whispering its secret for a week now.
Her breasts are fuller.
Her stomach has the tiniest swell.
Her skin glows different.
She runs hot at night and cold in the mornings.
She thinks she’s hiding it well.
She’s not.
What I can’t figure out—what has been eating at me since I put the pieces together—is why she hasn’t told me yet. Natalya isn’t afraid of me. And she knows I would never be angry with her about something like this, but still…she’s holding it in like a fragile secret she’s protecting.
I’ve barely survived keeping my excitement from her. I hate hiding anything from my wife, especially joy.
We eat in that comfortable silence where we’re still very much aware of each other’s presence.
She looks pale again, pushing food around her plate instead of eating it.
Time to test a theory.
I rise slightly from my chair.
“I forgot to grab a bottle of wine,” I say casually.
The effect is immediate.
Her hand shoots out, gripping my wrist.
“Wait—” she blurts. Too fast. Then she clears her throat. “Maybe we just do water tonight?”
I school my face, but a smirk slips through anyway.
She goes still.
Then gives me the flattest, most unimpressed look she can muster.
