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A little disbelieving guffaw escapes her lips and she clamps both hands over her mouth. Then she stares at me through her laced fingers with wide eyes. “That’s insane,” she murmurs. “You’re insane.”
“I think it’s the sanest thought I’ve had all year.”
I mean every word of that. I want this woman. And I want her forever. Not because she’s beautiful. Not because she’s carrying my baby. Not because I have to secure my legacy.
But because she makes me feel fucking strong.
And powerful.
And complete.
Because she makes me happy. And I haven’t been happy since…
Since the motherfuckers took everything from me the first time.
It’s all a neat conclusion when you look at it like that. I am going to make Wren my wife; I am going to slaughter the Irish and the Italians alike; I am going to give Elena the justice she never got.
Most of all, I am going to give myself the fresh start I’ve been craving.
And I will give Wren the future she deserves.
28
WREN
As it turns out, pregnancy isn’t so bad when you’re having constant, steamy, third trimester sex and being waited on hand and foot by a handsome Russian with a scowl that could make Lucifer jealous.
Although I haven’t been on the receiving end of one of his signature scowls for a while now. Matter of fact, I’ve seen more smiles in the last few days than I did in my whole first year as Dmitri’s P.A.
It’s weird, though: the more comfortable I get with our domestic routine, the more I start to question things.
Can I trust this fragile peace?
Can I let myself be happy?
Can I believe that this thing between us will go the distance?
If it were just me, it might be easier—slightly—to jump in feet-first. But I have my son to think about. If I make the wrong choice, he’s the one who’ll suffer.
My childhood was a textbook case of unhappily married parents.
I don’t want to repeat the same mistakes that they made.
Of course, it’s hard to imagine that we could end up like my mother and father. Dmitri cooks, for God’s sake. My father’s idea of cooking was grabbing a beer out of the fridge after a long day of work.
(Well, he said “work.” Who the hell knows what he was really doing?)
Today’s the first morning that I wake up before Dmitri. I spend a good few minutes staring at his face in trademark stalker fashion. Only when I start feeling too much like a pervy little creep do I turn away and slip out of our room.
Our room. It took me a while to get used to, and now, I can’t stop saying it. Can’t stop thinking it, either. It strikes me that this is the first time I’ve ever lived with a man. I never stayed with a boyfriend long enough for it to become a live-in situation and we all know what a disaster my relationship with William was. “Relationshit” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But every little nook and cranny of living with Dmitri feels surprisingly natural. I love going to bed together. I’m always the little spoon. Ironic, considering just how bloated and huge I feel all the time these days.
I love waking up with him even more. He’s usually wide-eyed and alert by the time I rise, if not already swooping back through the door with a tray of breakfast in hand.
It’s an easy thing to let myself get spoiled.
Which is why, since this is the first time I’m actually up before him, I decide to turn the tables and bring him breakfast in bed. My cooking skills are painfully limited compared to the Bratva’s version of Gordon Ramsay over here. No eggs Florentine or brioche French toast with raspberry-basil compote today. No, it’s a simple bowl of granola mixed with yogurt and a few slices of toasted bread with scrambled eggs. I barely resist the urge to throw an Emeril-esque “Bam!” of parsley at the plate.
