Page 36 of Oops Baby for the Mafia Boss

This is unbelievable. There are little plates too. A letter signifying the author’s surname, and the books are all lined up alphabetically. There are no spaces, or gaps. And as I gaze at all, my heart might just fly away. I trail my fingers over the books. It’s more books than I’ve ever seen in my life, even in a big bookshop.

A lifetime of reading.

The shelves curve around underneath the large staircase, and I come to a doorway. I look back at Markov, who is two steps behind, his hands in his pockets, dark head bowed. I swear there’s uncertainty in his grey eyes as he nods, indicating for me to go in.

It’s dimly lit, and my eyes take a second to adjust. Then I see more shelves, but in an intimate space. An oversized chair nestles in the middle. It’s as big as a double bed, and mostly covered with a heavy, soft-looking throw. There’s a little table built-in, charging cables neatly rolled, and a set of matching headphones from a brand I can’t afford.

“It’s an audiobook nook!” I laugh, my delight bubbling out of me, and I turn to grin at Markov.

There’s a mini fridge stocked with drinks, and shelves full of snacks, all within reach of the sofa. It’s the perfect snuggly reading space. A small table lamp glows gold, turning the pink covers to peach.

My heart aches. Is this really for me?

My gaze snags on a shelf at chest height. It’s filled with what look like gorgeous special editions, displayed edges out to show the pictures that I’ve seen—and pined after—online.

“Game of Thorns and Dragons!” I exclaim. It feels likeourseries. “It has its own section.”

And in the middle, there’s a sheaf of papers, stark against all the brilliant colours.

“What’s that?” I point at the plain white pages.

Markov doesn’t speak. He nudges me forward until I can read the small, printed title and the author, along with a signature.

It takes me a second to realise it’s a manuscript, and then another for it to sink in that it’s the book we were listening to together when he beckoned me over and I ended up pregnant.

“When did you buy this? Where did you even get it?” I flick through the pages. It’s annotated in blue ink, and all the breath whooshes from my lungs.

This is an original manuscript.

I look up at Markov. He has his face turned to the side, as though guilty.

“I bought it. One day after we met,” he confesses in a low, husky voice.

My mouth falls open. He read it. I can see it.

“You knew!”

He grabs the back of his neck, and has the decency to appear sheepish.

“You really did plan,” I say in disbelief. He must have known what was going to happen in the book, and had the idea of us playing along.

He takes my hand and gently tugs, his expression flickering with emotions I don’t catch.

“Are you trying to distract me?” I demand, mock-outraged.

He smirks, and Markov’s arrogant, unrepentant self is back.

But his big hand around mine and the revelation that he planned my seduction is a warm jacket I can’t resist. He really wanted me? He searched for me, and he’s happy about the baby?

It’s all too good to be true. It’ll be taken away, for sure, because something this wonderful doesn’t happen to a person like me.

It’s difficult to think with him near me, though. Just like that day when we listened to the audiobook, I give myself over to instinct. I follow as he leads me out of the cosy audiobook nook and up the stairs. There are even more books up here. Mostly ones I haven’t read, all in glossy new editions.

On the balcony, I realise what he’s taking me to and gasp.

It’s a ladder. An honest to god, book-accessing ladder, in brass and shiny brown wood. He keeps holding my hand but guides me towards it, seemingly unwilling to let me go, but also keen for me to explore.

Unable to suppress my smile, I step onto the bottom rung, grabbing the ladder for balance, then going up one more when I see a romantasy book on a higher shelf that released last year and I’m still in the library queue to get it.