Page 22 of Claimed and Bred By the Bratva

He's already moving, striding toward his office. I follow, confused, until he opens a cabinet I've never paid attention to before. Inside are at least twenty pregnancy tests. Different brands, different types, lined up like an arsenal. "What the hell?" I stare at the collection in shock. "Why do you have all these?"

He shrugs, but there's color in his cheeks. "If it were up to me, I'd have you tested every single day."

"You're insane," I tell him, but I'm already reaching for one.

"Crazy about you," he agrees. "Now go. I need to know."

The next five minutes are the longest of my life. I sit on the closed toilet seat, staring at the plastic stick in my hands, while Dimitri paces the bedroom like a caged animal. When the timer on my phone goes off, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely pick up the test. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

"Dimitri," I call, my voice barely above a whisper.

He's in the bathroom doorway before I finish saying his name, eyes immediately going to the test in my hands.

For a moment, neither of us breathes. Then he's on his knees in front of me, hands coming up to frame my still-flat belly with reverent care. "You're pregnant," he says, voice thick with emotion. "You're carrying my child."

That's when the tears start. Not sad tears—tears of overwhelming joy, disbelief, and something that might be destiny finally clicking into place. "Are you happy?" I ask through my tears, suddenly needing his reaction more than air. He looks up at me, and his eyes are wet too—the first time I've ever seen Dimitri Ismailov cry.

"Happy?" He presses his forehead against my stomach, shoulders shaking. "Angel, you've made me so fucking grateful I don't know how to contain it."

His confession comes in broken pieces, muffled against my belly. "After my mother and sister were killed, I shut my heart off completely. Thought I was dead inside. Thought I'd never feel anything real again." He pulls back to look at me, tears tracking down his cheeks without shame. "But you opened it. Opened it and took a man who didn't even know he was alone and gave him a home." His hand spreads wide across my stomach. "A family."

"Dimitri..."

"You're my whole fucking everything," he continues, voice fierce with conviction. "And it's a good thing you love me, because I'm going to wrap you in cotton and surround you with more protection than the Queen of England. Nothing happens to you. Nothing happens to our baby. If you don't survive, neither does this world."

The intensity of his promise should frighten me. Instead, it makes me laugh through my tears. "I feel the same way," I admit. "I've been around you too much. I'm getting just as possessive and crazy."

We both laugh then, holding each other in the marble bathroom where everything changed, and I think this might be what happiness feels like. Not the fleeting kind, but the bone-deep certainty that you're exactly where you belong.

***

Later, after he's made love to me with a tenderness that bordered on worship, after he's kissed every inch of my belly, his tongue washed away sweat and sex as he whispered promises to our unborn child, we lie tangled in his black silk sheets. I'm tracing patterns on his chest, marveling at how peaceful he looks when I remember something that needs to be addressed.

"Dimitri?"

"Mmm?" His hand strokes through my braids, contentment radiating from him like warm sunlight.

"I have a request."

"Anything."

"Don't kill Josh."

The hand in my hair stills. "No," he growls. "That fucker is a dead man. I gave him a warning, and he ignored it. He approached you, upset you, made a scene—"

"Please." I look up at him, batting my lashes and giving him my sweetest smile. "For me?"

He stares down at me for a long moment, jaw clenched from the battle between his protective instincts and his inability to deny me anything. Finally, he asks, "Do you think you'll be able to wrap me around your little finger with a kiss and a smile?"

I don't answer. Don't have to. His laugh rumbles through his chest. "You're so fucking right."

He captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes like surrender and promises and forever. "Fine," he murmurs against my lips. "Josh Brennan lives. But if he comes near you again—"

"He won't." I settle back against his chest, completely certain. "He got the message today. We both did."

"What message?"

"That this is real. Thatwe'rereal. That I chose you and I'll keep choosing you, no matter what the world thinks about it."

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