Page 44 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
When she sat up and looked around like she needed something to hold onto, and her eyes found me standing right there, she didn't hesitate more than a second before she buried her face in my chest.
My hand froze mid-air.
Her shoulder trembled lightly. I could feel her fingers gripping my shirt, feel the warmth of her forehead through the thin cotton.
My hand came down.
I put it on her back, light, just resting there.
No extra movement. No extra words. But my hand was on her, and I kept it there until she lifted her head.
She looked up at me, eyes swollen but holding something soft and transparent I'd never seen before. "Thank you for coming with me," she said.
"Yeah," I said.
She looked down at her belly, then hesitated and raised her hand. "She's moving. Do you want to...?"
She didn't finish, but the meaning was clear.
I looked at her hand on her belly. Stayed silent for a few seconds.
Then I put my hand over hers.
The kid kicked right then. Light as butterfly wings, but real—clear against my palm, through the fabric, through skin, hitting somewhere inside me I don't usually touch.
I stared at my own hand. Couldn't say a word.
Olivia laughed quietly beside me. "She knows you," she said. "She started moving as soon as you came."
"So you just stood there watching the ultrasound for twenty straight minutes?"
Sebastian was in the bar booth with a whiskey, smirk all over his face.
"Not twenty minutes," I said flatly. "Maybe ten."
"Oh, ten." He laughed harder. "Well, that explains why you still look like you're starving for more. You've said 'the baby's fingers were so small' five times since you walked in."
"I didn't."
"You did," he said, leaning forward. "And you asked me if all babies had that small fingers, if their heartbeats were always that fast, and what was that thing—right, fetal movement. You said you saw the baby kick and asked me if that meant she'd be really active."
I drained my whiskey.
"You're talking a lot today."
"Because you're entertaining as hell today," he said, settling back in his chair, swirling his drink. "Ezio Visconti, coldest mafia boss in New York, sitting here telling me how adorable his unborn baby's fingers are."
"I didn't say adorable."
"Your face did," he laughed. "When you pulled out your phone to show me that ultrasound picture—"
I glared at him.
He didn't care. Kept laughing.
"Real talk, man," he said. "I've known you for twenty years. Never seen you like this."
"Like what?"
