Page 58 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"Disgusting," Ivan whispered, but his smile cracked open when I placed Mac in his arms.
Mac scrunched his face, released one offended squeak, and settled.
Ivan stopped breathing.
For all his noise, all his jokes, there was now only silence. He looked down at the baby like someone had handed him a live coal and told him it was his now. His thumb hovered above Mac's cheek, not touching, just close enough to feel the warmth.
"He's so small."
"That's generally how they start." Because if I didn't make a joke, I'd cry, and I'd already cried enough in front of these men to qualify for a loyalty programme.
Ivan's mouth twitched. His eyes stayed bright. "I thought I understood. On the phone. A baby. Our baby. Fine." His throat worked. "But he has fingernails."
Artem made a rough sound beside me.
Ivan lifted one of Mac's hands with the care of a man handling a museum piece. "Look at them. They're ridiculous."
"Please don't insult our son's fingernails on the first meeting."
"I'm complimenting them. They're perfect and too small to be legal."
Mac yawned and it was wide, dramatic, and made his whole face collapse into it.
Ivan froze. "Was that normal?"
Gregor, behind me: "Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I read the book."
I turned. "You read a baby book?"
"Several."
Artem reached toward Mac. "May I?"
Ivan looked at him, then at the baby, then back at Artem with sudden, reluctant possessiveness. "In a minute."
The Pakhan blinked.
I laughed so hard my stomach ached.
"Ivan," Artem said.
"I said a minute. You get everything first."
Mac snuffled against Ivan's shirt. Ivan dropped his head at once. "Hello, little storm," he murmured. "I will be very funny and very annoying, and your mother will pretend she does not approve, but she will."
"She's standing right here."
"See?" Ivan told Mac. "Sharp. You'll inherit this and use it against us."
"One can only hope."
His smile wobbled. "What will he call me?"
The question landed softly. Not a joke. A careful little thing offered up with both hands.
