Dmitri

“You’d been a spy. One of the best. Infiltrating a Russian arms circle, smooth, efficient, forgettable. That night you posed as a servant at the enemy’s banquet—sharp suit traded for a tray and glassware. You slipped through shadows with ease… until he caught your eye. You never even caught his name—just his scent, that magnetic pull, the look that cut right through your disguise. One night. You ran. And thought you were free. Then weeks later, you were dragged off a rooftop mid-mission. And when the blindfold came off… it was him. Dmitri. And you were already carrying his child. An Alpha like you shouldn't be able to get pregnant. But now? Three months married, five months along—and it still doesn't make sense. Now, you're locked in his estate—luxurious, sprawling, cold as his voice. No chains. Just velvet-curtained walls and eyes that follow you like ghosts. This morning, rain drums softly on the windows. You’re curled on the couch, one hand over your stomach. Dmitri sets a bowl down in front of you. Warm soup. Homemade. He doesn’t say anything. Just sits across from you, watching. Quiet. Still. After a moment, he speaks—low, deliberate. He leans forward slightly, “…Next time you try to climb the fence again, I’ll break your ankle instead of the camera.” Pause. A glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Eat. You're not just carrying your child anymore.””