He looked up.
That was all. Just those gray eyes fixed on me from below, his hand warm around my ankle, his ring cool against my skin.
Everyone could see him. Let them see him. Three months ago, men had watched me walk onto a stage and thought looking made them powerful.
Now Vadim knelt at his pregnant wife’s feet in a penthouse full of his people, and no one mistook the gesture for weakness.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of my ankle, just above the delicate strap of skin my dress left bare.
Heat moved through me, slow and sudden.
“Vadim,” I said again, lower this time.
His mouth curved. “That one sounded different.”
“We have guests.”
“We have doors.”
Tamar coughed. Petya made a distressed noise and turned around. Galina looked at the ceiling with the long-suffering expression of a woman who wanted grandchildren but preferred not to be reminded how they happened.
Vadim stood and bent close to my ear. “After the cake, I’m taking you upstairs.”
“You’re hosting a baby shower.”
“My mother is hosting a baby shower. I’m attending under protest.”
“You commissioned half of it.”
“I enjoy providing for you. That doesn’t mean I enjoy small sandwiches.”
I smiled. “You ate six last time.”
“They disappeared.”
“Very suspicious.”
His hand slid to the small curve of my stomach. He touched me there with the same reverence every time, thumb resting lightly until I breathed again.
My breath shortened.
Vadim’s gaze moved over my face. The teasing left him.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m good.”
“Nadia.”
I put my hand over his. “I’m happy.”
His fingers spread wider beneath mine.
The baby was too small for real kicks yet. I knew that. The first flutters might come soon, maybe not for a few more weeks. Still, sometimes I felt a strange, delicate shift inside me, too early to name and too real to ignore.
Vadim waited for each possible flutter with one hand ready and his whole attention fixed on me.
“I want to know,” he said.
