Chapter 8 Pyotr
Pyotr
Ilie in the dark, watching her sleep.
Two weeks married. Two weeks of claiming her body, breeding her constantly, marking her as mine. And now...
Now I'm watching for signs.
Her breasts are fuller. I've spent two weeks worshipping them, memorizing every curve and detail. They've grown. Nipples darker, more sensitive.
Her skin has a glow to it. That pregnancy glow everyone talks about. Like she's lit from within.
And the nausea.
Yesterday morning, she barely touched her breakfast. This morning, when she woke to me inside her, she looked vaguely queasy even as she came apart around my cock.
My hand slides to her stomach, still flat. Still unmarked. But I know. Deep in my bones, I know.
She's pregnant.
Two weeks of obsessive breeding has worked. My seed has taken root. She's carrying my child.
The thought makes my cock harden instantly, pressing against her hip. She stirs, making a soft sound in her sleep, and I force myself to stay still. Let her rest. She's going to need it.
Because if I'm right her body is already working overtime to grow our baby.
***
An hour later, I'm proven correct.
She sits up suddenly, one hand flying to her mouth, face going pale.
"Bathroom," she gasps.
I move fast, lifting her, carrying her to the bathroom. She doesn't even protest, just lets me set her down in front of the toilet before she's retching into it.
I hold her hair back, my other hand rubbing circles on her back while she empties what little is in her stomach.
When she finally stops, she's shaking. Pale. Tears streaming down her face from the violence of it.
"I don't know what's wrong," she whispers, voice hoarse. "I never get sick. This is the third morning—"
"I know what's wrong."
She looks up at me, confused and miserable.
"When was your last period?" I ask, keeping my voice calm despite the triumph roaring through my veins.
She blinks. Thinks. I watch the moment realization hits—her eyes going wide, one hand flying to her still-flat stomach.
"Three weeks ago. Before..." She swallows hard. "Before the wedding."
"You're late."
"I'm..." She stares at me. "Oh god."
"You're pregnant, malyshka." I crouch beside her, cup her face. "That's morning sickness. That's your body adjusting to growing our baby."
"We don't know that for sure."
"Stay here." I stand, already reaching for my phone. "Don't move."
I step into the bedroom and call Viktor. "Pregnancy tests. Five different brands. I want them here in thirty minutes."
"Pyotr, it's five in the morning."
"Twenty-nine minutes now."
I hang up, go back to her. She's still sitting on the bathroom floor, one hand pressed to her stomach, looking dazed.
"Tests are coming," I tell her, sitting down beside her on the cold tile. "We'll know for certain in half an hour."
"Pyotr, I can't be pregnant. It's only been two weeks."
"I've filled you with my cum at least twice a day for two weeks straight." I pull her into my lap, one hand covering hers on her stomach. "Your body has had plenty of opportunities to conceive. And I know it has. I can tell."
"How can you tell?"
"Because I've been watching you. Obsessively. Your breasts are fuller. Your skin is different. You're tired more easily. And you've been nauseous every morning for three days." I kiss her temple. "You're pregnant, Vera. I know you are."
She leans back against my chest, both our hands on her stomach now. "If I am... if I really am..."
"Then I'm the luckiest bastard alive." I press my face into her hair, breathing her in. "Two years I've dreamed of this. You, pregnant with my child. Mine in every way that matters."
We sit like that until Viktor arrives with the tests. I hear him let himself in downstairs, his footsteps on the stairs.
"Boss?" he calls. "I've got the tests."
"Leave them outside the bedroom door," I order. "Then go."
His footsteps retreat. A minute later, I hear the front door close.
I carry Vera back to the bedroom, grab the bag of tests from the hallway.
Five boxes. Five different brands. I want to be absolutely certain.
"Take them," I tell her. "All of them."
She looks at the boxes, then at me. "What if they're negative?"
"They won't be."
"But if they are?"
"Then we keep trying." I cup her face, make her look at me. "But they won't be, malyshka. You're pregnant. I know it."
She takes the boxes with shaking hands and disappears into the bathroom.
I pace. Can't help it. Two weeks of breeding her, and now we're about to confirm what I already know in my bones.
She's mine. Completely. Carrying my baby. Marked inside and out.
The bathroom door opens. She emerges with all five tests, sets them on the nightstand.
"Three minutes," she whispers.
I pull her onto the bed, into my lap. My hand finds her stomach again—that constant, possessive touch.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Terrified. Overwhelmed. Nauseous."
"All normal." I kiss her neck. "Your body is doing exactly what it's supposed to do. Growing our baby. Making sure it has everything it needs."
"I'm twenty years old."
"And pregnant with my child. Perfect."
The timer on her phone goes off. Three minutes.
She reaches for the tests with shaking hands. Turns them over one by one.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
All five. Clear, unmistakable lines. Some digital, showing the word "PREGNANT" in stark letters.
She stares at them, tears streaming down her face.
I drop to my knees in front of her, press my face to her still-flat stomach.
"Thank you," I breathe against her skin. "Fuck. Thank you."
My hands shake as I hold her. Two years of obsession. Two years of planning. Two weeks of constant breeding.
And it worked.
She's pregnant. Carrying my baby. Mine in the most fundamental way possible.
"Pyotr," she whispers, her hands finding my hair.
I look up at her, and I know she can see everything I'm feeling written on my face. The triumph. The possession. The overwhelming rightness of this moment.
"You're mine now," I tell her. "Completely. You're carrying my baby. In nine months, you're going to give me a child. Make me a father. Nothing can undo that. Nothing can take you from me now."
"I know."
"Say it." I need to hear it. "Say you're pregnant."
"I'm pregnant." Her voice breaks on the words. "I'm pregnant with your baby."
I surge up, kiss her hard. Claiming her mouth the way I've claimed her body. She kisses me back, tears streaming down both our faces now.
When I pull back, I lift her, carry her to the bed, lay her down carefully.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Making love to my pregnant wife." I strip off my pants, cover her body with mine. "Celebrating."
"Pyotr, I just threw up."
"And now you're carrying my child. I'm going to worship that." I kiss down her body, paying special attention to her fuller breasts, her sensitive nipples. "Going to worship every change. Every sign that you're growing my baby."
When I reach her stomach, I spend long minutes just kissing it. Reverent. Possessive.
"My baby," I murmur against her skin. "Mine. Growing inside you where it belongs."
I make love to her slow and deep. Different than the feral breeding of the past two weeks. This is tender. Worshipful. Celebrating what we've created together.
She comes apart beneath me, gasping my name, her body clenching around my cock.
I follow her over, groaning as I fill her once again. But this time it's different. This time there's no urgency to breed her—she's already bred. Already carrying my child.
This is just claiming. Just love. Just mine.
After, I hold her, my hand splayed protectively over her stomach.
"How do you feel?" I ask.
"Overwhelmed. Scared. Happy." She covers my hand with hers. "All of it at once."
"Good. That's normal." I kiss her temple. "I'm scheduling a doctor's appointment. Today. Best ob-gyn in the city."
"You already have one picked out?"
Of course I did. I plan everything. "You're mine, Vera. And now you're carrying mine. I take care of what's mine."
She turns in my arms to look at me. "You're going to be insufferable, aren't you? Overbearing and controlling and obsessed."
"Yes." I don't apologize for it. "You're pregnant with my child. I'm going to make sure you have everything you need. That you're safe, healthy, comfortable. That our baby has the best possible chance."
"I'm not fragile."
"You're precious." I cup her face. "You're carrying my child. That makes you the most important thing in my world. Get used to being spoiled and protected and obsessed over."
She sighs but doesn't argue. She's learning. Learning that fighting me on this is pointless.
"When do we tell people?" she asks.
"After the doctor confirms it. After we're sure everything is healthy."
"And then?"
"Then everyone knows." My hand tightens possessively on her stomach. "Everyone knows you're pregnant. That you're mine. That I bred you exactly like I promised."
She blushes, which makes me smile.
"You like that," I observe. "Knowing everyone will see you pregnant and know what it means. Know that I filled you. Bred you. Made you mine."
"I hate that I like it," she admits quietly.
"Don't hate it. Embrace it." I roll her onto her back, cover her body with mine. "You're mine, malyshka. Pregnant with my baby. Walking proof that you belong to me. And I want everyone to see it."
I kiss her stomach again, that possessive gesture that's only going to get worse over the next nine months.
"My wife," I murmur. "My baby. Mine."
And she is. Completely. Irrevocably.
Exactly as I always planned.