Page 70 of Secret Heir

Maksim leaves the room, and I’m alone with my fear and my secrets and the life growing inside me.

I realize with crushing certainty that Maksim will never believe me without proof.

And I have no proof. Just memories of overheard conversations and a body on the floor. And I’m the only one who knows.

I sink onto the bed and press my hands to my stomach, feeling the slight curve there. Another life. Another person depending on me to keep them safe.

And I have no idea how.

I’m trapped in this house with a man who won’t believe me and a traitor who’s figured out my weakness.

And there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—I can do about it.

10

MAKSIM

I wake up alone.

My hand reaches across the bed automatically, seeking the warmth of Aria’s body, and finds only cool sheets. She’s been sleeping in my bed for weeks now and I’ve gotten used to her presence. The scent of her shampoo on my pillow. The way she curls into me in sleep even though she maintains distance when awake. The soft sound of her breathing in the dark.

Waking without her feels wrong.

I pull on sleep pants and a t-shirt and go looking for her. She’s not in the bathroom or in the sitting area. I check Daniel’s room and he’s still asleep, his rabbit clutched to his chest, one leg hanging off the bed. I gently fix his leg and re-tuck him in, pressing a kiss to his head.

Then I see her through the open door to what used to be her room.

She’s sitting in the window seat, knees pulled up to her chest, watching the sunrise. The early July morning light streams through the glass, illuminating her delicate features. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts and it hangs loose on her small frame, the neckline slipping off one shoulder.

Her dark hair falls in waves down her back and her face is turned toward the window, profile soft and unguarded in the quiet morning. One hand rests on her stomach. It’s still small but unmistakably rounded now at ten weeks.

She looks ethereal like something out of a painting.

And she’s mine.

The possessive pride that hits me is almost overwhelming. That gentle swell of her stomach is proof that she’s carrying my child. Another person made from our bodies, another tie binding us together.

I move quietly into the room, not wanting to startle her. But she must hear me because she turns, and for just a moment before her guard comes up, I see something soft in her eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask.

“Nausea.” She makes a face. “It’s worse at night for some reason. And I was too warm in bed.”

“Is that normal?” Concern flares immediately. “Should I call Dr. Petrov?”

“It’s completely normal.” A small smile curves her lips. “Just part of being pregnant. It’ll pass in a few weeks.”

“And you didn’t wake me?” I move to the window seat, and after a moment’s hesitation, she shifts to make room. “I would have wanted to know.”

“You were sleeping. And there’s nothing you can do about it except sit with me while I feel miserable.” But there’s no real complaint in her voice. “The sunrise helps.” At my furrowed brow she explains, “Focusing on something beautiful instead of how my stomach feels helps.”

I settle beside her, close enough that our shoulders brush. She doesn’t pull away. The sunrise continues to paint the sky in brilliant colors—orange and pink and gold bleeding across the horizon where it meets the ocean.

We sit in silence, and for once it’s not the heavy, angry silence that usually falls between us. It’s almost comfortable and dare I say peaceful.

I’m acutely aware of her beside me. The warmth of her skin through the thin t-shirt. The way she’s pulled her knees up, making the shirt ride higher on her thighs. The curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder, exposed and tempting.

I want to pull her into my lap and bury my face in her hair and hold her while we watch the sun rise together. But I don’t because this moment feels fragile, like any sudden movement might shatter it.