The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

Niall Maguire fled to Dublin, and Connor Maguire allowed him to flee. I’m sure Connor’s rage is all-consuming, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to punish his son in the way he deserved.

I planned to hunt Niall down myself and kill him. Yet even for that, I find myself loathe to leave Clare. Even for a single day, even for a single hour.

I have not become a more merciful man, but perhaps I’ve become a more patient one.

Clare’s light footsteps creep up behind me, across the ancient oriental rugs that carpet the dacha. She may be as quiet as ever, but she’ll never be able to sneak up on me. I whirl around and seize her, swinging her through the air and kissing her hard.

“Careful!” she says, breathlessly.

I set her down, looking at her bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

“When did you ever tell me to be careful?” I demand. “Or to go lighter on you?”

Clare tries to hide her smile, but it’s impossible.

“Some things change,” she says.

“What things?”

“The number of people in our party, perhaps…” she says.

Now my heart is racing, and a rare emotion hits: I’m afraid. Afraid that I’m not understanding her correctly.

“Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

She nods, blushing prettily. “I think it happened a few weeks ago. In the back of that convertible…”

A shout of joy bursts out of me, startling us both. I want to sweep her up in my arms again, but instead I summon every ounce of self-control I possess to lay my hand gently on her belly instead.

“Do you feel it moving?” I ask.

“Not yet,” she says. “It’s too early. But I definitely feel… different.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, listening, as if we might hear the tiny heartbeat beneath my hand.

“I’m different, too,” I tell her. “You’ve changed me. I never could have felt like this before.”

“Like what?” Clare asks.

“Happy. I’m so, so happy.”