Page 150 of Filthy Promises

“That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want, Vince? Because I’m confused as hell right now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, agitated in a way I’ve never seen him. “I need to make some calls,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Arrange things.”

“Arrange what things?”

“Security, for one. You can’t stay in that apartment anymore. It’s not safe.”

I stare at him, incredulous. “My apartment is perfectly fine.”

“It’s not,” he insists, already scrolling through contacts. “There’s no doorman, the fire escape is a security nightmare, and the locks are a joke.”

“I’ve lived there for years!”

“You weren’t carrying my child then.” His voice drops into that dangerous register that makes my spine tingle. “Things are different now.”

“Different how?”

“You’re mine to protect now,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Both of you.”

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the office. “I’m not yours, Vince. I’m not anyone’s.”

He looks up from his phone. “The baby is mine, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are under my protection. That’s non-negotiable.”

There’s that commanding tone again, the one that makes me want to simultaneously slap him and beg him to keep me in his arms.

“I’m not moving,” I say stubbornly.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” He’s already turning away, phone to his ear. “Arkady? I need a security detail set up immediately. St. Clair’s apartment.”

“Vince!” I protest, but he holds up a hand, cutting me off.

“Two men minimum,” he continues into the phone. “Around the clock. And locate Dr. Weiss—I need the best obstetrician in the city on standby.”

I stand there, watching this whirlwind of activity, completely baffled by the turn of events. This is not how I expected this to go. Not at all.

When he hangs up, he turns back to me, eyes softening. “You look exhausted. Let me take you home.”

“I can take the subway?—”

“Absolutely not.” His voice brooks no argument. “Not in your condition, and not after the FBI raid. My car is waiting downstairs.”

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass!”

“Pregnant with my child after throwing up in a plant and being questioned by federal agents for three hours,” he corrects. “You’re coming with me.”

It’s like arguing with a brick wall—no, scratch that; a brick wall might actually be more flexible. Vincent Akopov has decided I need protection, and apparently, nothing short of an act of God will change his mind.

“Fine,” I concede, too tired to fight anymore. “But this—” I gesture between us. “—whatever this is, we’re not done talking about it.”

“Agreed.” He retrieves his laptop, then guides me toward the elevator, his hand settling in that same possessive spot at the small of my back like he was born to touch me there.

As we ride down, I steal glances at his profile. His jaw is tight, eyes focused ahead, but every few seconds I catch him looking at me—or more specifically, at my stomach.

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