Page 34 of The Mafia's Septuplets
“Injury or illness. Maybe even something connected to the surveillance you’ve been noticing.” I move closer, drawn by the need to touch her, to confirm she’s safe and whole. “My mind went to dark places very quickly.”
Her expression softens slightly at the admission. “I’m fine. The baby’s fine, as far as we know. The doctor I saw thought everything looked normal.”
The baby. She says it so naturally, like she’s already accepting the reality of becoming a mother. The thought of Willa carrying my child, of building something permanent and precious together, makes my chest ache with emotions I don’t know how to process. “How far along?”
“Eight to ten weeks, based on my cycle.” She studies my face closely, as if trying to read my reaction to the news. “That dates back to our first time together, in your office.”
Our first desperate encounter, when boundaries dissolved into raw need. The memory of claiming her on my desk, of the way she responded to my touch with such perfect surrender, sends heat through my body despite the gravity of our currentconversation. “Are you happy about it?” The question reveals every shred of vulnerability I’m feeling.
“I’m terrified,” she says honestly with a brief smile, “But yes, I think I am happy, or will be eventually, once I figure out how to manage everything.”
Everything. The word encompasses the complexity of our situation, including her inherited business, the ongoing threats, and the question of whether she can trust me enough to build a future together.
“You’ll move in with me immediately.” The statement emerges with absolute certainty, driven by protective instincts that override diplomatic consideration. “Tonight, if possible.”
Her expression hardens instantly. “Excuse me?”
“The security concerns we’ve discussed have just become exponentially more serious. You’re carrying my child, which makes you a target for anyone who wants to hurt me.” I step closer, crowding her against the doorframe. “I won’t risk your safety or the baby’s.”
“I’m not moving in with you.” She sounds angry. “I’m not giving up my independence because I’m pregnant.”
I scowl down at her. “This isn’t about independence. It’s about survival.”
“Is it? Or is it about you wanting to control every aspect of my life?” She pushes against my chest, though the gesture lacks real force. “I’ve been managing fine on my own.”
“Have you? You’ve been under hostile surveillance for weeks while trying to convince yourself you’re imagining things. I’ve indulged that because I was keeping you safe, but it was anillusion.” My voice drops to something intimate and dangerous. “Mikhail Balakin’s soldiers have been documenting your routine, your friends, and every vulnerability you possess. Only my people have kept them in check and from doing whatever it is they plan to do with all that information.”
The color drains from her face at the confirmation of her fears, and she slumps against the doorframe. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the times you’ve mentioned to me you’ve felt watched but always dismissed it. Professional operatives conducting reconnaissance for someone who wants to use you against me have been following you since Henri’s death.” I cup her face gently, noting how she trembles at the contact. “You’re not paranoid, Willa. You’re being hunted.”
She shakes her head, and her eyes are luminous with tears. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it? Think about the sensation of being watched, the feeling that hostile eyes are tracking your movements.” My thumb traces her cheekbone as I speak. “Your instincts are trying to keep you alive.”
She pulls away from my touch, moving deeper into her bedroom as if distance will make the threat less real. “This is exactly why I can’t be with you. Your world is too dangerous for someone innocent.”
“Our child is already part of my world whether we’re together or not.” I follow her into the room, noting details that speak to her careful, organized nature. “The only question is whether I can protect you both or if you’ll face the danger alone.”
She stiffens, still not looking at me. “I don’t want your protection if it comes with strings attached.”
“What strings?”
“Living in your house, under your rules, and dependent on your approval for everything I do.” She turns to face me, green eyes flashing with anger and fear in equal measure. “I have no interest in becoming your kept woman instead of your partner.”
Her words contains enough truth to be uncomfortable. My instinct is to shelter her from every threat and surround her with enough security to ensure nothing harmful can reach her. That instinct doesn’t leave much room for the independence she values so highly. “You think that’s what I want?”
“I think you want to own me the same way you own everything else in your life.”
The words make me flinch, forcing me to examine motivations I’d prefer to keep hidden. Do I want to possess her? Yes, completely and without reservation, but I also want her to choose that possession freely, to surrender because it serves her needs as well as mine.
“Maybe I do want to own you.” The admission emerges with dangerous honesty. “Just not the way you mean.”
She tilts her head, looking at me through narrowed eyes. “What way do you mean?”
“I want you to belong to me because you can’t imagine belonging anywhere else. I want you to trust me enough to let me take care of you.” I move closer, drawn by her scent and the way her breathing gets faster when I invade her space. “I want you to need me the way I’m starting to need you.”
“Need me how?”