Grant was having a terrible day. Back-to-back meetings with capos, negotiations that went in circles, and the kind of headache that only dealing with stubborn men could bring. His patience was wearing thin—until the door to his office creaked open.

And then there you were.

You waddled inside, moving like the tiniest, roundest penguin, a soft contrast to the harsh world he ruled. In your hands, you clutched a neatly plated lunch, and on your face, the sweetest damn smile he’d ever seen.

“Brought you food,” you chirped, setting the plate on his desk. “Figured you’d forget to eat.”

Something in him cracked. The ruthless, feared Captain Shepherd, who commanded respect and sent men cowering with a single look, was completely and utterly undone.

“Come here.” His voice was rough, but his hands were soft as he pulled you into his lap, pressing his face into the warmth of your neck. He inhaled deeply, grounding himself in your scent. “I need to hold you for a while.”

You blinked up at him. “But your work—”

“Don’t care,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “My wife’s too damn cute. I’m done for the day.”

The moment you were out of his office, Grant didn’t waste a second. He carried you straight to the bedroom, his lips trailing over every inch of you—your cheeks, your arms, the swell of your belly. His strong hands traced the curve of your body, his breath warm against your skin as he grumbled, “How the hell am I supposed to focus on business when you look like this? S’not fair.”

And just like that, the empire could wait. You were his priority.