Page 43

I’ve kept this mostly private up to now, something only I could feel, quiet and mine, completely separate from anything Artem or anyone else could touch or comment on. Watching it start to show feels different, a line crossing from private to visible, from something only I know about to something the whole world will start noticing, whether I’m ready for that or not.

Staff will notice eventually, if they haven’t already.

I’m not sure how I feel about that yet. Proud, in a way I didn’t expect. Exposed too, but not from fear. This pregnancy’s already taken over more of me than I agreed to.

My body isn’t fully mine to hide anymore, not the way it used to be, and I’m still working out whether that loss of privacy feels like something taken or something given willingly, the two possibilities sitting close enough together that I can’t always tell which one I’m actually feeling on a given day.

I change out of the dress that evening, pulling it over my head in front of the mirror the way I always do, and it’s only halfway through that I catch the movement in the doorway behind me.

Artem, leaning against the frame, not saying anything, not pretending he just arrived, the lamp light catching the edge of his expression in a way that makes it clear he’s been standing there watching for longer than a passing glance would explain.

I freeze for half a second, dress bunched at my waist, and the old instinct kicks in first, the urge to cover up, to laugh it off, to make the moment small and easy the way I’ve made a hundred moments small and easy since I got here. Then I catch his expression in the mirror, and the instinct changes shape entirely.

There’s nothing in his face that reads like judgment or intrusion, just a stillness that looks almost reverent, and something about that stops the old reflex before it can finish taking hold of me.

He isn’t looking away either.

I hold his gaze instead of breaking it, my hands slowing rather than rushing to finish undressing, some new confidence surfacing in me. “You’re staring,” I say, voice steadier than I expect it to come out.

“I know.” He doesn’t move from the doorway. “You can tell me to stop.”

“I didn’t say that.”

His shoulders drop half an inch, a stillness that reads as restraint rather than hesitation, and he pushes off the doorframe slowly, crossing the room without hurry, like he’s giving me every chance to change my mind along the way.

Each step lands unhurried against the floor, deliberate in a way that makes my pulse pick up more than if he’d rushed.

He stops close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him, his eyes tracking down before returning to my face, and I don’t look away from that either.

“You’re staring,” I say, catching him at it.

“I am.” He doesn’t try to deny it. “It’s gotten bigger this week. More than I expected.”

I look down at myself, at the curve pushing against my dress. “Yeah. Kind of hard to miss at this point.”

He reaches out and rests his hand against it. “I like it.”

My breath catches at the touch.

His other hand comes up to my jaw, tilting my face toward his, and for a moment neither of us moves, the air between us thick with everything neither of us is saying yet. His thumb traces once along my cheekbone, sand I lean into it before I can decide whether that’s the wise thing to do tonight.

My pulse is loud enough that I’m certain he can feel it under his palm, still resting against my stomach, and neither of us moves to close the last inch of space between our mouths, both content for now, to just stand there in the charged quiet, letting it build slowly without rushing toward anything at all tonight.

His hand stays against the curve of my stomach while the other holds my jaw. The space between our mouths is small enough that I feel every breath he takes.

I lean in first.

His mouth is warm against mine, and I answer the same way, letting it stay soft before it deepens. His thumb strokes the new curve of my belly in small arcs the entire time, as if he cannot help mapping the change in me.

When we part for air, he rests his forehead against mine.

“I’ve been thinking about putting my hands on you like this all day,” he says quietly.

“Then don’t stop.”

He kisses me again, fuller this time. My hands fist in the front of his shirt and pull him closer until the soft press of my stomach is flush against him. A quiet sound leaves my throat. He answers it with a low one of his own and slides his hand into my hair, holding me where he wants me.

We stay like that, kissing, breaking only to breathe before coming back together. His hand never leaves my belly. Its simple pressure keeps sending warmth through me.