Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I tried ignoring that she never called him our son or our baby, or that she never once referred to him as ours. As if, in a way, she was tolerating me and this marriage only for the child. And while I attempted to let that slide, I don’t like it. I don’t like that she’s been slowly erasing me since the wedding.
Considering the way everything started, I gave her some leeway, content with having her by my side every night and knowing she’s safe and fucking mine.
However, no matter how much she comes undone around me, she never lets me hear her voice anymore. As soon as I’m out of her, she gives me her back and moves to the edge of the bed. That doesn’t stop me from spooning her from behind, but while she sleeps in my hold, she still squirms every night, still tries to get away from me.
Which will never happen.
And it’s not only because of the child. As much as I’m a fucking scum for using my own son, his existence is merely a consequence of keeping her by my side.
How are you any different from your psycho mother? I can hear Yan chastising me, and I push him and his loathsome voice out of my head.
Unlike my mother, I won’t hurt my son for my own gains. If anything, I’ll burn the world if anyone so much as gets near him or his mother.
All remnants of anguish disappear from Lia’s face, replaced by a soft, awed expression. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks, but she looks the happiest I’ve seen her since before she broke her leg.
Or maybe ever.
The nurse carefully places the baby in her arms and Lia holds him gently, lips falling open, then shut, apparently lost for words.
The child immediately stops crying as his mother pulls him to her bare chest, which is only covered by a sheet. Even though the nurse wiped him down, he’s still covered with goo and blood. However, Lia doesn’t seem to care about that as she smiles at him through her tears. “Hi there, my beautiful angel.”
His small fingers curl into fists, resting on her breastbone, and his eyes move behind his closed lids as if he can recognize her voice. She spent the entirety of her pregnancy talking to him, making him listen to music and dancing slowly because she wanted him to be light on his feet. She even went out of her way and read to him when I know for a fact that she hates it.
“What do you want to name him?” the midwife asks me in a fearful voice.
After I ordered Kolya to close down the entire floor for Lia to give birth, I assume everyone in the hospital knows who I am. This is one of the brotherhood’s rare legitimate businesses. Although most know we own it, they don’t really get to meet us—except in instances like this. I could’ve had them deliver the child at home, but I wanted her to get the care she needed as fast as possible in case of any complications.
Since the moment I learned Lia was pregnant, I’ve been studying pregnancy and birthing more than I’ve studied anything in my life, so I’m well aware of possible complications. I might have been a tad obsessive about it to the point that Lia once grumbled that I know more about it than even she does.
“What do you want to name him, Lenochka?” I ask.
Her gaze slides from him to me, her teary eyes sparking. “You’ll let me name him?”
“Yes.”
“Does it have to be a Russian name?”
I brush a stray strand of damp hair behind her ear, and I’m thankful she doesn’t flinch away like every time I try to touch her outside of sex. “Not if you don’t want that, no.”
“Won’t…Sergei be mad?” Her breath catches. She’s seen him once since that day, during his grandniece’s birthday, because he made a big fuss about it and ordered me to bring her.
She was five months pregnant at the time, and she remained quiet as he likes. She was involved in her charity activities so she seemed less trapped and more inclined to be on her best behavior around members of the brotherhood. Besides, she was more interested in leaving that place as soon as I was ready.
“Sergei doesn’t tell me what to name my son.”
She stares down at him, biting her lower lip, and I hate that gesture. It’s how she mutes herself from me, slowly but surely building a wall around herself.
“Jeremy,” she murmurs.
“Jeremy?”
“I dreamt about it a few weeks ago. I was dancing in the garden with a little boy who was maybe four or five years old named Jeremy.” She smiles, though it’s laced with sadness. “He looked so much like you.”