Page 115 of Bought By the Ruthless Pakhan

The light outside shifted. Crept from the windowsill to the foot of the bed. It caught the side of his face, painting it pale gold.

"There's something else."

Finally.

His voice was quieter now. Quieter than before. Like he was afraid it would break if he spoke too loud. There was something underneath it—something he was trying to hold down but couldn't quite contain.

He lifted his eyes to mine. The ice in them had melted. What was left was water—shallow ripples spreading out from the center.

"The doctor said you're pregnant."

The words dropped into the air. Soft at first. Then they sank. Deep.

I lay there for a moment, looking into his eyes. Into that unguarded light he hadn't hidden well enough. It was bright. Careful. Like he was afraid it would shatter if he let it fill too much space.

My fingers turned in his palm. My fingertips traced the lines of his hand. I felt the faint tremor in his grip.

"How far along?" I asked.

"About six weeks," he said. "The doctor said everything's stable. You've been pushing yourself too hard. You need to take it easy."

Another pause. Like he was waiting for me to absorb it.

I didn't say anything. I just lay there, feeling that faint signal from somewhere deep inside—something I wasn't sure I could believe yet, but I knew it was there.

"This is our second child," I heard myself say.

He lowered his head. Pressed his forehead to the back of my hand. He stayed there for a long time.

I watched his shoulder blades shift beneath his shirt. Like something inside him had finally loosened. Like a ship that had drifted too long had finally found shore.

He didn't speak. But his lips touched the edge of my knuckles. Warm. Still.

"I owe you too much."

It took him a long time before he finally spoke. His voice was muffled against the edge of the blanket, and by the time it reached my ears, it had already become faint and blurred.

"When they took you, I was in a meeting room when I got the call. Dmitri said the tracker had moved. He said they had dragged you into a car outside the convenience store. I was standing there with the documents still in my hand, and my mind went completely blank.

Then I drove. I called in people. I arranged everything. I calculated every step. I had a plan for everything, but I was still afraid. I was afraid the entire time—from the moment I heard they had taken you, until the moment I walked into that factory and saw you standing in the hallway—"

He stopped for a moment, as if something had caught in his throat.

"I was afraid that I was the reason you were dragged into danger," he said. "I was afraid you were taken because of me. I was afraid that when you woke up, you would hate me. That you would want to leave. That, just like five years ago, you would disappear from my life completely again."

I listened. His forehead still rested on my hand. His breath brushed my knuckles. Warm. With a faint tremor I could barely hear.

I felt his fingers tighten. Gently. Like he was holding something fragile.

I lifted my other hand. Rested it on top of his head. His hair was shorter than I remembered. The ends pressed into my palm. The feeling was real.

"I don't hate you," I said. "I never hated you."

He looked up.

His eyes were red-rimmed. Not wet. But something full and heavy churned beneath the surface—about to spill over, but held back.

I looked at him. Didn't speak. Just traced my fingers over his brow, stopping at the patch of skin near his temple. It was warmer than usual.