Page 25 of The Pakhan’s Hidden Heir

BASTIAN

I have Ingrid set the small dining room rather than the great one. The smaller table feels more intimate for a dinner with Raina, less like I’m trying to show off. I want it private, and I want her comfortable.

I don’t want anyone gawking or listening in, because tonight isn’t business. I’ve had her here in my house for two full weeks and I want to make sure she’s feeling settled.

Raina comes down in something the seamstress made her, a soft dark dress that suits her far better than the threadbare coat she arrived in.

She sits across from me, smiling softly, which is far better than her serious expression she normally wears.

She looks ravishing tonight like always, but even more so after hearing from Ingrid how she defended me to that friend of hers.

“You can relax,” I tell her, pouring the wine myself rather than waiting for Ingrid. “It will just be you and me tonight once we’re served. I thought we could talk.”

Her shoulders relax a little as she picks up the glass and sips. “I’m sure we have a lot we could talk about. Like your library, or your music room.” The way she hums softly after her sip of wine is attractive, or maybe I’m just addicted to her body already.

Sex every day for nearly two weeks has gone to my head. She’s so pliable and yields to whatever I want.

I sit back and let her have a moment with the first course before I decide to break the silence and speak. “Tell me how you’re finding the house. Is anything not to your liking, anything you’d change?”

“Honestly? Nothing.” She takes the last bite of her salad then dabs her lips. “Your home is lovely, Bastian. And you’ve given anything and everything I could want. My only complaint is not seeing you as much as I thought.”

Her comment makes my chest buzz and I study her as she sips her wine again. I’m not sure if she means she wants to see me more, or if she likes seeing me.

Or maybe she means the sex is incredible—because it is—and she wants more of it. All those things would make my ego swell.

“And you’re sleeping well? No trouble settling?” I can’t get hung up on the unspoken things. Besides, I have to remind myself that I’m not in this to catch the woman. I’m under a contract and nothing else. But if catching the woman was a thing I might permit myself to do, I’d have her already. I feel it in my gut.

“Better than I have in a long time.” She glances up, surprised by the question. “You seem very invested in my wellbeing.” The way she states that is cautious, like she’s asking if I like her.

“A person who isn’t sleeping or eating well doesn’t stay healthy for long, and your health matters a great deal to me.” I hear how cold that sounds, but it’s the truth. A sick woman will produce a sick baby. “You’re going to carry my heir, remember?”

She smiles softly, but I detect a hint of disappointment in her expression as she turns to her plate.

Ingrid serves us the main course and bows as she leaves, then we dig in. The silence commands the room for a while, which I’m not uncomfortable with, but I didn’t bring her here to sit in silence.

I am interested in the woman who will mother my heir. I’m just not good at breaking the ice and finding my pathway into that conversation.

So I start awkwardly. “You left school at seventeen,” I say, cringing at myself. “Your grandmother was sick?”

Her fork slows on the way to her mouth, and I watch the life slowly drain from her happy expression. Crestfallen, she says, “There was no one else. So I left, and I took care of her. I just never had the chance to go back.”

“What kind of cancer?” Her connection to loss intrigues me. We’ve both lost someone we were close to, though for her the only caregiver she ever had is slightly different than my case.

“Pancreatic cancer,” she chokes out, setting her fork on her plate. “By the time anyone caught it, it was everywhere. The only thing they could do was radiation. She was too old for a transplant and even still, it would’ve affected a new pancreas…” Her words slowly trail off, as if she’s remembering it painfully and doesn’t want to.

“Her insurance wouldn’t cover the care?” I think of the bills, the fact that most folks would’ve been on state care. Raina had so much debt.

“She didn’t have insurance. She’d cleaned houses under the table most of her life, and when she got too sick to work, she didn’t qualify for the programs that might have helped. Too old for some, wrong diagnosis for others.” Raina drapes her napkin over her plate and sighs. “When they realized they weren’t going to get paid, they put her on end-of-life care and made her comfortable.”

I listen without offering the soft noises people usually make, the sorries and the that-must-have-been-so-hards, because they’ve never helped anyone.

Raina doesn’t strike me as a woman who wants them, anyway. She seems to be handling herself well, though saddened. Who wouldn’t be?

“You were the only one,” I say. “No aunts, no cousins, no one to share the burden?”

“Just me.” She lifts one shoulder. “We don’t have to talk about this if you…” Her lip wiggles between her teeth and I realize she’s not comfortable talking about this anymore.

“Just you, you are very strong,” I say softly, mesmerized by the grace with which this young woman has lived her life. She chuckles softly and it warms her whole face.