Chapter Twenty-Andrea
I don’t remember when the ache started.
Somewhere between answering emails and hauling myself off the couch to make tea, a sharp cramp cut through me, low and deep, enough to steal my breath.
I tried to brush it off—first pregnancy nerves, twins, hormones—but then another hit. Harder.
By the time I’m doubled over at the kitchen counter, sweat beading at my temples, the front door opens.
“Andy?”
His voice carries like a shot through the silence. One second it’s just me and my shallow breathing, the next he’s there.
Filling the doorway, broad shoulders, emerald eyes narrowed on me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Remy—” My voice cracks, and I hate that it does.
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t waste a second. His hands are on me, strong but gentle, steadying me when I think my knees might buckle.
“Tell me where it hurts.”
I gesture helplessly to my belly, another wave twisting through me. His jaw tightens, but his touch stays calm.
“Hospital. Now,” he says, and before I can argue, I’m scooped into his arms like I weigh nothing.
My protest dies in my throat. His heartbeat thunders under my cheek, steady, unrelenting, like a war drum.
The drive is a blur. Callie’s booster seat sits empty behind us, her favorite pink blanket folded neatly on it, and that’s enough to make my chest tighten even more.
Remy drives like the road is his enemy—controlled fury, every light and car in his way bending to his will.
At the hospital, I barely have to say my name before he’s got me wheeled into triage, barking orders like he owns the place.
Nurses try to soothe him, but he won’t calm down until I’m hooked up to monitors, until a doctor comes in to listen, until someone tells him—
“False alarm,” the doctor says at last, smiling kindly. “Braxton Hicks. Common with multiples this early, but nothing to worry about.”
I let out a shaky breath, relief flooding me so fast it makes me dizzy. But it’s Remy I’m watching.
The man who’s been standing at my bedside like a sentinel finally lets his shoulders drop.
He drags both hands over his face, mutters something low, then sinks into the chair beside me. His hand finds mine automatically.
“You scared the shit out of me, Andy,” he whispers, his voice rough.
“I scared myself,” I admit, blinking fast. “Sorry.”
“Don’t.” He squeezes my hand, fierce. “Don’t ever apologize for this. For them.”
His other hand slides over my belly, and I swear my heart stutters. He bends down and presses a kiss to the curve of it, his stubble scraping soft against my skin.
“I’m here for you. For all of you. Daddy’s here,” he murmurs to our babies, and my eyes sting.
I can’t stop staring at him. At the man who rushed me here without a thought for anything else.
The man who makes Callie laugh like the sun itself lives in her chest.
The man who, even with all his darkness and scars, looks at me like I’m the miracle.
He glances up, catches me staring, and for once, I don’t look away.
“You’re gonna be an amazing father,” I say quietly.
He smirks, but it doesn’t hide the emotion in his eyes.
“Damn right I am. And you’re gonna be an amazing mom.”
I smile, small but true, and for the first time in weeks, my fear eases. Just a little.
Because maybe I picked right.
The Next Morning.
It’s the fourth morning this week that I’m just riding into the city, to my job at Volkov Towers, with Remy Falco.
I suppose this is my new normal.
I count the days.
And I’m right. It’s been four mornings of polite conversation, with just the right amount of space between our bodies, and his cologne choking the damn air like some kind of pheromone warfare.
The man smells like sandalwood, sin, and dark roasted arrogance, and it is absolutely not okay.
Every night that scent surrounds me, though I can’t for the life of me figure out how.
I mean, I go to sleep alone. I wake up alone. His side of the bed is still made, the sheets cool.
Where has he been spending his nights? I have no idea.
Really, I should give him back his bed, but the truth is I’ve never slept better, and carrying these babies I love so much? It’s not easy on the body, and I’ll take my rest where I can get it.
I’m not complaining. Just stating facts.
And there is absolutely zero reason for me to be so grumpy this morning because like I said—best sleep ever.
Only I think I’m grumpy for another reason, and that one has everything to do with hormones and nothing at all to do with the walking, talking porn-star-moves -in-bed-having (and, yes, I really do know that for sure) man sitting next to me.
Fine, I’ll just say it.
Pregnant me = horny me.
I should not be this affected by the shape of his hands on the steering wheel or the way his voice dips when he says “morning” like it’s a secret between us.
I should not remember how those same hands held me down, spread me open, and made me see stars.
And I definitely shouldn’t glance at his lap every time we hit a red light, wondering if he’s thick and hard, aching like I am, if he’s thinking about it, too.
What is wrong with me?
I’m supposed to be focusing on the babies.
On getting my shit together.
On not letting a gorgeous ex-operative with gemlike eyes and muscles that don’t quit ruin my damn brain chemistry.
But no. My hormones and my body have other ideas.
And Remy, with his big hands and even bigger cock—the SUV comes to a hard stop.
How the hell did we get here so fast?
One second, I’m shoveling down Remy’s spectacular scrambled eggs and drinking the glass of milk Callie pours me herself, while pretending I don’t notice how hard Remy is staring at me across the table.
The next, we’re already pulling into the private valet inside Volkov Towers.
“I’ll walk you in,” he says, killing the engine, already moving to get out.
Gentlemanly. Controlled. Too much.
I fake a smile that doesn’t come close to reaching my eyes.
“No need. I got it.”
His gaze sharpens, narrowing like a predator clocking prey. For one terrifying heartbeat, I think he’ll argue.
But then he gives me a single, deliberate nod—like he’s letting me think I won.
Spoiler: I didn’t.
Because when I swing the door open myself and try to bolt for the elevators like the car is literally on fire, he’s right there.
Matching me stride for stride.
Of course he is. He’s the tallest human I know, for fuck’s sake.
“Here, I’ll hold that.” He plucks my pocketbook right off my shoulder before I can even protest, the damn thing looking ridiculous in his massive hands.
“I can—”
“Andy.”
Just my name, in that low, warning growl that strips the air right out of my lungs.
So I shut up.
The elevator ride is claustrophobic.
My pulse thunders in my ears. The whole time I can feel his heat, his presence, like he’s wrapped around me without touching me.
Except—no, he is touching me.
The second we step off, his palm is at the small of my back.
Firm. Proprietary. Possessive.
Hostage.
That’s what it feels like. My spine is strung so tight I think I might snap.
We walk through the marketing department, and sure enough, heads turn.
My coworkers—bright, ambitious, nosy as hell—pretend to keep working, but I see the sly glances. I hear the whispers.
And fine, maybe it’s not exactly a secret. Being married to Remy Falco. Pregnant.
The whispers were inevitable. But we haven’t made any announcements yet.
My mother is still waiting on me to make that phone call.
And every step I take with his hand on me is a reminder that I’m not ready.
Not ready for the questions.
Not ready for the judgment.
Not ready for the way I like how his hand feels there, guiding me, claiming me.
“Okay, um, thanks,” I say quickly when we reach my office door, trying to shake him. Trying to keep my voice light.
But of course, Remy doesn’t move. Doesn’t give me an inch.
Instead, he opens the door and gestures me inside like a conquering king letting his queen enter her throne room.
My nerves are a jumbled, crackling mess. My frustration burns hot in my chest.
Because I know exactly what he’s doing.
Remy Falco isn’t letting me go anywhere without reminding everyone—including me—that I’m his now.
His wife.
Even if it’s just because I tricked him into knocking me up.
Shit.
“By the way, your new IDs, license, debit and credit cards will all be arriving here today via special courier around noon. I’ll let your secretary know—”
My head jerks up. “What? What are you talking about?”
Remy doesn’t even blink. He says it like he’s discussing the weather.
“We’re married now, Andy. I assumed you wanted the same last name as our children.”
Smug. Smug, gorgeous bastard.
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s not wrong in that assumption.
Of course, I want the same last name as my babies.
That isn’t the point.
The point is, he just decided.
No consultation. No conversation. Just—Remy’s way.
And yet, I bite my tongue. Because fighting him here, now, in front of curious coworkers who are definitely eavesdropping from behind their computer screens?
Not a winnable battle.
Better to save my ammunition for when it counts.
“Fine,” I manage, clipped.
His mouth twitches like he knows I’m conceding without surrendering.
“I’ll have lunch delivered at the same time,” he adds smoothly.
Of course he will.
Of course, Remy already has it handled.
I nod, because what else am I supposed to do?
And yeah, maybe I don’t say no because every single damn time, he knows.
Somehow, this man knows exactly what I’m craving before I even figure it out myself.
Like it’s coded into his blood. Some weird sixth sense that makes me feel both spoiled and seen.
It should scare me.
Instead, it makes my chest ache.
Because deep down inside where I keep my most secret dreams and wishes? Well, there’s one I refuse to even acknowledge in the light of day. One that’s a desperate hope that this could all be real someday.
That Remy, Callie, and the babies could all be mine because they chose me, just like I chose them.
Not because they were tricked. Or cheated.
God, how I wish that were possible.
“Is there anything else?” I ask, still standing awkwardly in the middle of my office, trying to keep my voice level.
This strange truce we’ve been living in since the shotgun wedding is shredding my nerves thread by thread. Remy Falco is a lot—a lot of presence, a lot of heat, a lot of everything.
And being around him every single day is like living inside a storm.
“Yes, I think so,” he murmurs, voice low and rough like gravel.
Then he moves.