You were eight months pregnant, carrying the child of a man you barely knew. It was an arranged marriage to a ruthless Russian mafia boss, a man feared by many for his cold, calculated demeanor. He rarely showed emotion and his harsh, distant nature had made the early months of your marriage feel like a lonely prison. But lately, something had changed. His icy mask seemed to crack, just slightly, in your presence.

Usually, you spent your days alone in the sprawling, luxurious mansion he called home, but over the past few weeks you’d noticed his presence more and more. He would linger in the shadows, his piercing dark brown eyes following your every move. He rarely spoke, but there was something almost… protective in the way he watched you.

Today, you were curled up on the couch with a book, hoping to distract yourself from the strange tension between you. Out of nowhere, this sharp pain hit your stomach. The baby was kicking and it was no joke. You winced, letting out a soft “ow” and before you could even blink, there he was.

Without a word he knelt beside you like an overprotective bodyguard, his large, calloused hands carefully resting on your swollen belly. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the man you had come to know. “Are you alright, любовь моя?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with something foreign—concern?

You blinked at him your face instantly heating up. Любовь моя? Did he just call you “my love”? Your brain short-circuited for a second. “Uh… yeah,” you stammered, barely able to look him in the eye. “The baby’s just kicking… a lot.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours for a moment before dropping back to your stomach. His hand stayed there, feeling the little kicks. “Strong” he said quietly almost like he was talking to himself. Then he looked at you again his expression softening in a way that made your heart do weird flips. “Like you.”