Page 79 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“Humor me.” He straightens, looking almost uncomfortable. “Do you need anything? Water? Food? The nurse will be here soon, but—”

“Trifon.” I catch his wrist. “Sit. Please.”

He does, perching on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid to disturb me.

“We need to talk about this,” I say. “About the baby.”

His expression shifts, something fierce and protective flashing in his eyes. “What about it?”

“Are we really doing this? Having a child together?” The question sounds absurd even as I ask it. Of course we are. The decision was made the moment the test confirmed what we both suspected.

“Yes,” he says simply. “We are.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.” He takes my hand, his much larger one enveloping mine. “This changes things, Yulia. But not in the way you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that child—our child—will always be cared for.” His voice hardens. “They will be protected. Loved. Given everything they could ever need or want. The way I’ve protected my siblings. Only better.”

The conviction in his voice makes my chest ache. I believe him. Whatever else Trifon may be—criminal, manipulator, force of nature—he protects what’s his with a ferocity that borders on terrifying.

“Our child won’t lack for anything,” he continues, voice gentler now. “Including parents who are there. Present.”

The promise of it—this unshakable certainty that our child will be loved—eases something in me I didn’t realize was wound tight. For all my anger at how our marriage began, for all my fear about being trapped in this life, I can’t help but be grateful that my child will have a father who would burn the world down to keep them safe.

But as I look at Trifon, at the fierce protectiveness in his eyes, I realize what’s missing from his promises.

Love for me.

Protection for the child, yes. Care for the mother of his heir, certainly. But the tenderness between us—the way he holds me, touches me, the almost-reverence in his voice when he talks of our future—it’s all centered on the baby. Not on us. Not on me.

And I realize with a dull ache that this is what our future looks like. A marriage bound by a child. A partnership based on necessity rather than choice. I will stay for the baby, and he will protect us both, but there will always be this distance—this space where love should be.

I lean back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted again.

“Thank you,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.

Trifon’s thumb traces my knuckles, the gesture so gentle it almost undoes me. “For what?”

“For caring about the baby. For promising to be there.”

Something passes across his face—too quick to read, gone before I can name it. “Always,” he says. “I will always be there. For both of you.”

Both of you. Not you. Both of you.

I should be grateful. I am grateful. But as Trifon presses a kiss to my forehead before rising to let me rest, I can’t help but wonder if gratitude is enough to build a life on.

If safety without love is all I’ll ever have.

Chapter 20 - Trifon

I sit alone in my office, back to the fireplace, fists clenched on either side of my chair. The fire crackles behind me, but there’s no warmth in it. Not tonight. Not when the Fyodorovs are about to walk into my house.

My fingers pause over the sonogram I placed on my desk. Six weeks. Barely more than a flicker on the screen. But it’s there—proof of life and a beginning.

Mychild.