"Silas," I whispered his name without thinking.
This man was usually ice-cold, transactional, emotionless. But right now, every muscle in his body was strung tight, sweat dripping from his temples onto my collarbone, scalding. He braced himself above me, careful not to put weight on my stomach. That tiny thread of restraint at the edge of his control made me feel… cherished.
It wasn't supposed to feel like this. We weren't supposed to have this.
I was the auction-block collateral my father used to clear his two-million-dollar gambling debt. A rented uterus. Yet somehow, in all thelittle details, I kept reading tenderness. And that was why I'd fallen like an idiot.
He kept changing the rhythm, deep, shallow, deep, dragging me through orgasm after orgasm until I lost count. Finally, he pulled out with a low grunt and came hard across my belly. When it was over, the room held nothing but our ragged breathing, his crisp cedarwood scent mixing with the raw musk of sex.
Silas gathered me against him, lazy and sated, propped against the headboard. His arms stretched out, biceps still carved even at rest. I curled into the crook of his shoulder, soaking up the afterglow.
"What do you want to name him?" I asked softly, unable to stop myself even though I knew better.
To my surprise, he didn't snap at me. He looked down and said, "You get to decide. You're his mother."
Without the usual violence masking him, he actually looked… calm.
"I was thinking Olei," I whispered, hand drifting to my belly. "It means happiness will stay with him his whole life."
Silas's father, the Bratva Pakhan, took the bloodline extremely seriously. I'd had monthly ultrasounds. I already knew we were having a boy.
The baby kicked once, as if answering me. Silas's gaze slid from my face to the swell of my stomach.
"Olei," he repeated in that low, rolling Russian accent. "Good name."
My eyes widened. For a Thorne heir, "happiness" was a frivolous, weak word—something to be mocked. I'd braced for him to laugh at how naive it sounded.
But he didn't. Instead, he reached over and covered my hand with his big, rough one. For one absurd second, we felt like a real couple on Valentine's night, quietly waiting for their baby together.
Then Silas suddenly moved. That tall, powerful body left the bed. A pang of loss hit me instantly.
He rummaged in the nightstand drawer, metal and wood clinking.When he turned back, he held a deep-red velvet box. My heart stuttered.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and opened it.
Inside was a breathtaking rose-gold diamond ring—a pear-shaped center stone surrounded by a halo of smaller pink diamonds. Stunning. And obviously obscenely expensive.
"This is…" My throat closed up.
"Hand."
I extended my left hand, trembling, eyes stinging. Oh my God—he was giving me a Valentine's ring. Even though I'd told myself a thousand times this was just business, just a contract to keep my father alive, right now my brain was collapsing. I let myself believe, for one stupid heartbeat, that he might actually love me.
He took my ring finger and tried to slide it on.
It stuck. Hard. Pregnancy swelling had made my knuckles thicker; the ring wouldn't go past the joint.
Reality crashed in like ice water. Even the ring was rejecting me. Of course it was.
I tried to pull back, cheeks burning. "Sorry, the doctor said it's just edema. Water retention."
Silas didn't let go. He studied the stuck ring, brow creasing slightly.
"Hold still."
He tugged it free. I waited for him to snap the box shut, toss it back in the drawer, maybe throw in a cruel remark about my delusions.
Instead, he grabbed a thin silver chain from the drawer, threaded the ring onto it with quick, practiced movements, then leaned in. His arms came around my neck.
