Page 75 of The Russian's Arranged Pregnant Bride

“I want to trust you,” he said, his voice dropping. “Ineedto trust you. But I can’t if you keep secrets from me.”

My breath hitched.

He knew. Or at least, he suspected.

“I know you’re hiding something,” he continued, his gray eyes searching mine. “And I need you to tell me. Not because I want to punish you. But because I can’t protect you if I don’t know what I’m protecting you from.”

The words stuck in my throat, tangled up with fear and shame and guilt.

“I need a few days,” I whispered. “To gather the courage to tell you everything.”

He studied me for a long moment, his jaw tight.

Then he nodded. “Okay. A few days.”

Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by dread.

Because a few days wasn’t enough.

A few days wouldn’t change the truth.

And when I finally told him, it was going to destroy us.

***

Drew’s hands moved to the back of my dress, his fingers finding the delicate buttons that ran down my spine.

“Let me help you,” he murmured.

I nodded, unable to speak.

He worked slowly, carefully, undoing each button with a patience that made my chest ache. His knuckles brushed against my bare skin, and I shivered.

When the dress finally fell away, pooling at my feet, I stood there in nothing but my lingerie—soft white lace that Hailey had insisted I buy.

Drew’s eyes darkened. His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, his voice rough. “You have no idea.”

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let myself fall into this moment and forget about everything else.

So I did.

I reached up, tangled my fingers in his hair, and pulled him down into a kiss.

It started soft. Gentle. A question.

But then it deepened, turned desperate, hungry.

His hands roamed over my body, mapping every curve, every inch of skin. I tugged at his shirt, pulling it free, running my hands over the hard planes of his chest.

“Drew,” I breathed against his lips.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered back. “I’ve always got you.”

He lifted me easily, carried me to the bed, and laid me down like I was something precious.

“Look at me, Cassandra,” he commanded, his voice hoarse with his own desire. His eyes were dark and intense as they locked with mine—a shade of storm I’d never seen before. The air between us was heavy, humming with something raw and electric, like the quiet before lightning splits the sky.