Page 172 of Filthy Promises

I look up at him. I know this face so well. The sharp jawline, the silver-streaked hair, those impossibly blue eyes.

But now there’s something new there—a softness I’ve never seen before.

A vulnerability reserved only for me.

“I think our baby’s going to have your eyes,” I say, pressing my palm to his cheek.

His own hand covers mine. “Let’s hope they get the rest from you. The world doesn’t need another Akopov temperament running around.”

I laugh, the sound filling the small bedroom. “I don’t know. I’ve grown kinda fond of that temperament.”

“Even when I’m being an arrogant, controlling asshole?”

“Maybe not then,” I admit. “But definitely now. When you’re just… Vince.”

“Just Vince,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I like the sound of that.”

We make love once more before exhaustion claims us. This time is the sweetest yet—slow and deep and achingly tender. As I drift toward sleep in his arms, I feel his hand settle protectively over my stomach again.

“I’ll get you a real ring tomorrow,” he murmurs against my hair. “Something worthy of you.”

“I don’t need diamonds,” I say sleepily. “Just you.”

His arms tighten around me. “You have me. Forever.”

I believe him. After months of doubt, of fearing I was just a convenient solution, of protecting my heart against inevitable heartbreak—I finally, completely believe him.

Vincent Akopov loves me. Me, Rowan St. Clair, former marketing associate, current executive assistant, forever the woman who stumbled into his office at exactly the right wrong moment.

And I love him—the criminal, the businessman, the protector, the father of my child.

Every version of him, dark or light.

50

ROWAN

It’s amazing how quickly happiness becomes your new normal. Like you’ve been there all along.

Three weeks of bliss with Vince, and suddenly, I can’t remember what it felt like to be lonely.

To be afraid.

To wonder if the man I loved would ever truly love me back.

We’ve settled into a routine that feels both surreal and somehow perfectly right. Mornings at his penthouse, where the kitchen staff makes me whatever pregnancy-friendly breakfast I can keep down. Nights spent tangled in black silk sheets, his hands always finding their way to my stomach, his voice whispering plans for our future against my womb (and then doing other things with his mouth a little bit lower).

Even my mother is responding well to treatment. The “anonymous benefactor” continues to fund everything she needs. When I told her about the engagement, she cried happytears, then immediately started planning a wedding that would make even the Akopovs raise their eyebrows.

“Nothing too extravagant,” I’d told her, which made both her and Vince laugh like I’d said something ridiculous.

But the best part? The best part is watching the man I love gradually shed the armor he’s worn his entire life.

Like right now.

The sound of the shower running fills the penthouse as Vince takes his predictably precise twelve-minute morning routine. I’m still in bed, one hand resting on my barely-there bump, scrolling through baby name websites on my phone.

“Nothing Russian,” Vince had insisted last night, surprising me. “Nothing that ties the baby to the Bratva.”

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