Page 67 of Claimed By the Boss

I let my eyes roam the room out of habit, noting points of entry and lines of sight, but I keep my attention anchored to her.

23

LYRA

My stomach knots at the soft rustle of fabric and the muted clink of metal as he slips his watch onto his wrist. It’s early. The pale light outside my window tells me that much. We fell asleep curled around each other last night with a brand-new understanding of a possible future together.

But in the cold light of day, I wonder if our promises still stand.

I sit up and pull the blanket tighter around me. The words are out before I can talk myself out of them. “Are you really going to kill that man?”

Damien’s head turns just enough for his gaze to find mine, and for a moment it’s unreadable, those icy blue eyes giving nothing away.

“Lyra,” he says slowly, like he’s testing how much I can take before I break. “He’s a dangerous man, and he threatens everything that I love. I’ve killed many men. He deserves it more than any of them did.”

I grip the blanket harder, my throat tightening.

“I don’t care what he deserves. I care about you. I’m scared something will happen to you, and you need to be here for us.”

His jaw flexes, and he exhales through his nose, stepping closer until he’s standing at the side of the bed.

“I will be here, I promise you that. That is precisely why I need to do this.”

The way he says it makes me feel as if there’s no way around it, as if it’s already set in stone. My mind races with all the ways things could go wrong, but I know he won’t be swayed by fear alone. I take a breath, forcing my voice steady.

“Then at least spend the day with me. Please.”

Something in his expression shifts. The hardness doesn’t disappear, but it cracks just enough for me to see the man underneath.

“All right,” he says finally, and that single promise is enough to ease the tension coiled in my chest.

A little over an hour later, his warm hand rests firmly at the small of my back as we step into a shop, its window dressed in pale blues and soft creams. I’ve passed this store a million times, but I’ve been too afraid to walk in until now.

The bell over the entrance gives a polite chime as we walk in, and I’m instantly swallowed by the smell of freshly laundered cotton and something faintly sweet, like vanilla. Everything is impossibly tiny, including delicate knit hats, soft blankets folded in perfect squares, and rows of tiny shoes lined up. I touch one of the little hats, and it’s softer than anything I’ve ever owned. The thought of our baby wearing it makes me tear up again.

Damien watches me, one brow lifting slightly. “Do you like it?”

I nod, and before I can say more, he waves over a saleswoman.

“We’ll take everything in this section,” he says, voice casual but commanding.

My eyes widen. “Damien,” I warn. “That’s too much.”

He glances at me briefly and shrugs. “You’ll need it.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t want our baby to be a spoiled brat.”

“Our baby won’t be a brat,” he answers, moving deeper into the store. “He or she will just have lots of options.”

He points out blankets, swings, bouncy chairs, a stroller that looks like a luxury car. He makes every choice in the same decisive tone. For the first time, I’m thinking about all the advantages our baby will have with Damien as the father.

When he turns toward the counter, I follow, the small swell of my stomach brushing his arm as I step closer. He tells the saleswoman to send everything to his place.

“You know,” I murmur, “I don’t even live with you.”

His lips curve slightly, a flash of amusement in his eyes. “You do now.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice, no question. I realize that somewhere between last night’s fear and this morning’s argument, something has shifted. We are officially a couple. He was absolutely serious about marrying me, and this is just the beginning of what will likely be a very extravagant life.