Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

The words hung in the air.

*Little one.*

I stared at Andrei. He was looking at me with an expression I’d never seen on him before—something careful, something gentle, like he’d just realized he’d said something that was going to change the shape of the room.

"What," I said. My voice came out flat. Confused. "What little one?"

Nicolas turned his head and glared at Andrei.

Andrei raised both hands. "I thought she knew."

"She didn’t know," Nicolas said.

"Well she should have—"

"Andrei."

Andrei shut up.

Nicolas looked at me.

Something shifted in his face. The anger—or whatever that had been—dropped away. What was underneath was—

I didn’t have a word for it. Careful, maybe. The way you’d be careful holding something fragile. Something you weren’t sure how to hold.

"Irina," he said.

My hand was still on the blanket. I could feel the texture of it under my palm, the rough weave, the specific weight of hospital-grade cotton. Something to focus on. Something real.

"What is he talking about," I said.

Nicolas’s hand moved. Found mine. His fingers closed around it—not tight, not grabbing, just—holding. The way you held something you didn’t want to let go of.

"You’re pregnant," he said.

The room went quiet.

Not silent. I could still hear everything—the low hum of the ventilation system, someone’s footsteps in the corridor outside, Roman’s breathing from somewhere behind Nicolas. I could hear all of it.

I just couldn’t process any of it.

"I’m—" The word stuck. I tried again. "I’m what?"

"Pregnant." His voice was very steady. Too steady. Like he was working to keep it that way. "A few weeks. Nadia ran tests."

My free hand moved.

I didn’t tell it to move. It just—did. Came up off the bed, crossed to my stomach, pressed flat against the fabric of the hospital gown.

Pregnant.

*Pregnant.*

The word wasn’t connecting. It was just—sitting there, separate from the rest of me, like something I’d heard in a language I didn’t speak.

I looked down at my hand on my stomach.

Nothing felt different. I’d been nauseous for three days—I’d thought it was stress, bad food, exhaustion, any of the hundred things that could make a person feel sick when their life was currently a series of escalating crises. I hadn’t thought—

I hadn’t let myself think—

"I can’t," I said. The words came out automatic. Old. Something I’d been told so many times it had become fact. "The pack doctor said—years ago, she said I’d have trouble. That my body wasn’t—" I stopped. Looked at Nicolas. "She said it probably wouldn’t happen."

"She was wrong," Nicolas said.

His thumb moved across my knuckles. Once. Slow.

I looked at his face.

The door opened.

Nadia came back in. She had that professional calm on her face—the doctor-mask, the thing she wore when she needed to deliver information and couldn’t afford to let her own feelings get in the way.

She looked at me.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"I don’t know," I said honestly.

She nodded. Like that was the answer she’d expected. She crossed to the bed, glanced at the monitor, checked something on the chart that was hanging at the foot of the bed.

"The pregnancy is early," she said. "Four weeks, maybe five. It’s hard to be precise at this stage." She looked at me. Her voice was gentle. "But I’m certain."

My hand was still on my stomach.

Oh god.

My throat closed.

"Irina." Nadia’s voice pulled me back. "I need you to listen to me."

I looked at her.

"Your body has been through significant trauma," she said. Factual. Not unkind, just—stating it. "Malnutrition, repeated injury, chronic stress. All of that impacts fertility, yes. But it also impacts your ability to carry safely." She paused. "The fall today—the impact—it didn’t cause any immediate damage. But you’re at higher risk. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

I didn’t understand. Not really. My brain was still stuck three steps back, trying to process the fact that there was something *growing* inside me, something that hadn’t been there a month ago.

"You need to rest," Nadia said. "Properly. No stress, no heavy lifting, no—" She looked at Nicolas. Back at me. "No putting yourself between alpha wolves and their targets."

"Noted," I said faintly.

"I’m serious." Her voice sharpened. Just slightly. Enough to cut through the fog. "Your body is working very hard right now. It’s trying to heal *and* sustain a pregnancy. Those two things are—difficult. Separately, either one would be taxing. Together—" She shook her head. "You need to take care of yourself. That means eating regularly, sleeping properly, and avoiding situations that might result in you being thrown across a hall."

Something in my chest tightened.

"Is the baby okay?" I asked. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. "Right now. Is it—"

"Right now, yes," Nadia said. "But we’ll need to monitor closely. Daily, for the first week. Then we’ll reassess." She looked at Nicolas again. "She needs to stay here. In the medical wing. At least for the next few days."

"Done," Nicolas said immediately.

I looked at him.

His hand was still around mine. He hadn’t let go. His shoulder was healed—I could see it now, the torn shirt hanging off him, the skin underneath smooth and unmarked where the wound had been an hour ago. Like it had never happened.

Nadia cleared her throat.

We both looked at her.

"She needs rest," Nadia said. "That means you keep the room quiet. No pack business. No stress. Nothing that’s going to raise her heart rate."

"Understood," Nicolas said.

Nadia didn’t look convinced, but she nodded and left.

The door closed behind her.

The room went quiet.

Nicolas was still holding my hand.

I looked at our hands. His fingers around mine. The size difference. The way his thumb kept moving—small circles, unconscious, like he didn’t know he was doing it.

"Are you happy?" I asked.

The question came out before I could stop it. Before I could think about whether I wanted to know the answer.

He looked at me.

"Yes," he said.

Simple. Direct. No hesitation.

Something in my chest loosened.

"You don’t have to be," I said. "If you’re not—if this isn’t what you wanted—"

"Irina." He leaned forward. Not far. Just enough to close the distance. "I’m terrified. I’m angry at Maxim for putting you in danger. I’m angry at myself for not seeing it coming." His voice was low. Steady. "But happy?" He looked at my stomach again. "Yes. I’m happy."

I didn’t know what to say to that.

He reached up with his free hand. Cupped my face. His palm warm against my cheek, his thumb brushing just under my eye.

My heart skipped.