Page 82 of Stolen By the Don

“Yeah,” she replies. “It’s nothing,” she adds as she chews on her bottom lip. “I was told I didn’t have to come back for six more weeks, but—” She exhales, and I catch her hand lifting in worry. “I thought I’d just go and make sure everything’s okay.”

“Okay.”

She chews her lip harder. “Okay.”

I slide my hand out as she closes the door again, catching it before it shuts.

“I’m coming with you.”

She pauses, eyes flicking up in surprise. “You’re coming with me?”

There’s hesitation in her voice, but the soft sigh that escapes her sounds a lot like relief.

“Yes. I am,” I say, my voice low and steady. “You’re my wife, Isabella, and you’re carrying my child. Did you really think I’d let you go alone?”

“It’s not a big deal,” she mumbles, her defenses flimsier now. “It probably won’t even take an hour.”

My hand stays firmly on the door. “Then I’ll sit with you for that hour. Every second, if I have to.”

“It’s really not?—”

“Bella.” I step in, close enough to see her lashes flutter. My voice softens, but the weight behind it doesn’t budge. “You’remine. And we’re doing this together.”

She looks over her shoulder momentarily, then back at me with a sigh. “Can you give me a couple minutes, then? I just need to sort out a few things.”

I shake my head slowly. “I’ll help you sort it.”

Her brows lift. “Roman?—”

Before she can finish, I press gently on the door, slipping inside like it was never up for debate. “Let me in, printsessa.”

The room is a mess. Clothes are strewn everywhere—on the bed, across the back of the chair, even on the floor. A suitcase is half-zipped as if she gave up midway through. She turns away and throws her hands up, exasperated.

“I’ve been panicking, okay?” she says, pacing in a small circle. “I know it’s ridiculous—I’m not even showing yet—but I feel like nothing looks the same on me anymore. Like my body already knows, and it’s just…changing without me.”

She gestures wildly toward the pile of clothes. “None of this feels right. I don’t feel right.”

Before she can spiral any further, I cross the room in three strides and cup her face in my hands, forcing her to stop and look at me.

“Hey,” I say, voice low, almost rough with how tightly I’m holding it together. “You’re allowed to panic. But you’re not allowed to talk about yourself that way. Your clothes don’t look right? We’ll throw everything away. We’ll get new clothes. Just tell me what you need.”

Her lips part, the fight leaking out of her slowly. “To breathe,” she whispers. “I think the air thinned out after you left last night. It’s been hard to breathe all morning.”

My thumb presses against her cheekbone, exerting light pressure in a caress. “Feel that?” I murmur. She nods. “Good. Focus on my thumb. Focus on the feeling and breathe.”

She hesitates for a moment, almost panicking again, but I pull her closer with my other arm around her waist. “Breathe, printsessa.Breathe.”

“Why do you still call me princess?” she asks. “I know you were making fun of me initially, probably because you thought I was sheltered, but I think I’ve been through enough to show you that I’m not fragile.”

“It was never about being sheltered,” I say, locking eyes with her.

“Why then?”

“Your eyes,” I whisper roughly as I dip my head, pressing a kiss there. “They were the darkest shade of brown I’d ever seen. When I walked into the cathedral, I could feel them following my every move. Everyone else cowered, but not you.”

My other hand slips under her camisole, stroking her back. “You held your head high even though you were frightened. You weren’t fragile, Bella. You were almost untouchable.”

“If I wasn’t in shock, I would’ve found a gun and probably shot you,” she says with a smile. “I wouldn’t have missed.”

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