Page 151 of Filthy Promises

Like he can’t quite believe it.

It’s confusing as hell.

Why is he suddenly so invested? So protective? Sopossessive?

And what about Anastasia? The engagement announcement that’s supposed to happen next week?

None of this makes sense.

But as his car glides through the darkened city streets, his hand finding mine across the seat, I decide I’m too exhausted to untangle it all tonight.

Tomorrow, I’ll demand answers. I’ll figure out what this means for us—if there even is an “us.”

Tonight, I just let him drive me home, his eyes checking on me in the rearview mirror every few minutes, as if I might disappear if he looks away too long.

Something has changed between us. I can feel it—thick in the air like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.

I’m just not sure if we’re heading toward shelter or straight into the lightning.

44

VINCE

I escort Rowan inside, then retreat downstairs. I don’t want to set foot in her personal space. Not yet.

Instead, I stand on the corner and watch until the light in her third-floor window flickers on before turning to face Arkady. He’s leaning against the car, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“She’s pregnant,” I say without preamble.

Arkady’s match freezes halfway to his cigarette. “Come again?”

“Pregnant. With my child.”

He slowly lowers the match, his expression shifting from surprise to something that looks suspiciously close to amusement. “Well, fuck me sideways with a socket wrench. You certainly know how to complicate things, brother.”

I pace along the sidewalk. Energy is thrumming through my veins, sparkling and crackling in every tendon, every cell.

A baby.

Fucking hell.

“This changes everything,” I mutter, more to myself than to Arkady.

He snorts. “No shit. What about your pretty little arrangement with Anastasia?”

I stop pacing, turning to face him. “I can’t think about that yet. This comes first.Shedoes.”

He just looks at me, saying nothing, that knowing half-smirk playing at his lips.

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Don’t what? Don’t point out that you’re actually fucking happy about this? That you’ve been looking for an excuse to choose her all along?”

I turn away. Because he’s right. As soon as Rowan said those words—“I’m pregnant”—something locked into place inside me.

Relief. Purpose. Maybe even a fucked-up version of joy.

As much joy as a dark, broken son of a bitch like me is capable of feeling, anyway.

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