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The way she shuffles around the bed half-awake does things to my chest. And then I start wondering what she’ll look like waddling around with a sizeable baby belly—the one I gave her—and I have to change subjects before I lose myself in a fantasy. “I got you something, too. Something to wear.”
Daphne rolls her eyes at me. “Is it a teddy with a thong? A straitjacket? A French maid costume?”
Not yet, but there’s an idea. “None of the above. Just something comfortable for around the house.”
I walk over to the overstuffed chair and rummage through the pile of new clothes before I find what I’m looking for: a silky-soft lounge set, complete with drawstring sweatpants, a tank top, and a buttonless open robe. I hold it out to her on the hanger. “It’s maternity, so you can adjust it as you grow.”
“Oh. I, uh… thank you,” she mutters shyly. She takes the hanger from my hand and ducks into the bathroom.
When she re-emerges, I stiffen at the sight. Daphne is wearing clothes I chose for her, draped in fabrics I imagined her in, her swollen stomach the constant reminder of how thoroughly I claimed her body just a few short months ago.
Months that felt like eons when I didn’t think I’d see her again.
Months that now feel like mere blips, now that she’s here.
In my home.
Wrapped up in me.
Inside and out.
“Off we go.” I nudge the door open and beckon her through.
Daphne begins to say something about how delicious the kitchen smells when she stops in her tracks.
“I wanted to introduce you to my team,” I explain. “Well, your team. Mostly.”
“‘My team’?” Daphne croaks as she looks in complete confusion at the four men making themselves at home in the dining area.
“Security. Bratva specifically, just so you know.” I ease her to a seat at the kitchen island. “Figured it would be better to make introductions so you know who they are instead of wondering who’s following you around.”
Daphne spins around on the stool to fix me with a hard, bewildered stare. “You’re having me followed?”
I focus on serving up a plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and fresh strawberries which I set down in front of her at the island. She still tries to demand answers from me, but the smoothie I procure from the fridge shuts her up before she can launch into a full-blown inquisition.
I make my own plate and sidle into the seat next to her.
Daphne seems to relax the moment I sit down next to her. I don’t know if it has more to do with close proximity to me, or the mere fact that I’m obscuring her view of the guards and the guns strapped to their sides.
“I’m so sorry,” she suddenly says. I’m ready to ask her what for, what can I fix, when she leans around me and smiles at them. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Daphne.”
“We know,” the closest man rumbles.
She deflates a little and returns to her plate. Chertovy idioty… I turn on my stool to shoot them a glare, which gets them to straighten up and attempt something close to friendly greetings.
“I’m Boris,” the one sitting closest to us offers up. “My apologies, miss. It’s just that we’re supposed to know who you are ahead of time. Force of habit, and all.”
Daphne smiles at him and nods her thanks. Her mouth is too full of scrambled eggs to answer with words. The rest at the table say their names—Anton, Ilya, Dem.
For her part, Daphne keeps glancing at the weapons strapped to their hips, but says nothing. I still have no idea what the hell last night was about, but something in the air feels like this is a significant shift for her.
We eat our breakfasts in silence. I watch closely to make sure she devours every bite. The way Daphne wraps her lips around the straw to drink her smoothie makes my mind wander elsewhere, to the point where I’m almost regretting having the guards right there as an audience.
She hops up to take our empty plates to the sink, but as I go to take them from her—“Here, let me”—she balks and twists and I somehow end up with my palm plastered against her belly instead of plucking the dishes.
Both of us freeze.
Idiot. Too far. Way too fucking far.
