Page 141 of Married to My Sis’s Bratva Fiancé

"Is that him?" I asked.

The doctor smiled. "That's your baby."

Our baby.

My father had never looked at me like that. I'd been terrified I'd become him someday, but blood isn't a sentence, and fear isn't an excuse.

I can choose to be someone else.

"Is he healthy? She's been more tired lately; paint fumes make her nauseous. Does she need to stop working? How long can she stand every day? Sleep, and—"

Elena pinched my hand. "One at a time."

Back at the manor, I upgraded the studio ventilation, locked the harsher materials in an exhaust cabinet, but I didn't make her stop painting. I just dragged a chair in and sat there. When she hit twenty-seven minutes standing, I checked my watch.

"You're annoying," she said.

"The doctor said you can't stand too long."

"You timed me?"

I tugged my cuff down. "Habit."

She set her brush aside and walked up to me. "Do your books say excessive anxiety makes a wife want to stab her husband with a paintbrush?"

I caught her waist and pulled her onto my lap. She protected my injured shoulder automatically, and a few strands of hazel hair brushed my jaw.

"You should rest," I said.

"You should too."

"Then we rest together."

"In the studio?" Her face flushed.

"I just want you to sit for a minute."

"Your hand isn't saying that."

My thumb slid slowly along her waist. "It's making sure you don't fall."

"Liar."

She kissed me once, quick. Then she stood up before I could deepen it.

"Break's over."

I watched her pick up the brush again and decided I was going to reread the doctor's intimacy guidelines tonight.

Three weeks later, the exhibition opened on schedule.

The original venue, lighting, and insurance hadn't been good enough for her. I didn't outright buy the gallery. I asked first if she would allow the Morozov Foundation to sponsor it.

"Are you going to interfere with the selection?" she asked.

"I'm not."

"I decide the curation?"