Vladimir spouts nonsense when he says no one is innocent. The truth is, there is one exception: her⎯pure little lamb.

He doesn't have the luxury of showing weakness to anyone. He is Vladimir, not just some bloke. But seeing her smile, stroking her soft hair, breathing in that sweet scent, and snogging her pink lips is heaven. It's like his heart is hit by some illness, and the man falls for it when he makes her his missus. He chooses her⎯neither some cheap woman nor a posh escort from an agency.

Keeping a lid on another life ain't no trouble for him. He clears the information about her as if this woman doesn't exist at all; hence, no one knows about her⎯except for his people, who watch and protect her when Makarov is not around. And Vladimir's mother.

He scowls at the smartphone screen, where he sees her pouting lips telling him about the pregnancy. Oh god, this is not how he wants to hear news like this, absolutely not.

Love is like leprosy, he always tells himself.

In the evening, five black military Humvees pull up to the estate. Vladimir steps out of the car and quickly grabs her around the waist when she rushes toward him. “My beloved angel,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on her tender cheek. “Sorry for not givin' ya a heads up.”

Innocent. After all, blood rushes to her cheeks when she sees cars full of massive sunflowers⎯her faves. He can't spoil her enough; she tries to be independent and stubborn, and even though it gets on his nerves, her shy reaction is better.

Finally, he remembers why he bailed on everything for a couple of days. His hand lands on her not yet rounded belly, and his fingers softly glide over the fabric of her clothes. “…our little bean, yeah?” He might seem indifferent, but this news properly throws him off. Bloody hell, he just pictures what sort of father he'd be⎯ the worst, obviously⎯ to raise a mini version of himself. “Let's go inside. I don't want you to freeze.”

His other hand presses a little firmer on her lower back, pulling her into a warm embrace.