Pregnant for the ruthless heir

Ciara adjusted the cleaning cloth in her hand as she stood outside the large wooden door. She had passed this hallway many times as a child, always walking behind her mother, always told not to look around too much. This part of the house was not for people like them. Now she was standing here alone. “Just clean and leave,” she muttered to herself before pushing the door open. The room was bigger than the entire space she shared with her mother. Everything inside it was neat but not untouched. The bed was slightly unmade, a jacket tossed over a chair, a faint scent of something clean and expensive hanging in the air. On the desk, a single book lay open and face-down, the spine bent carelessly like someone who did not care about keeping things. Beside it sat a glass of water with a thin c***k running up one side. It was the only thing in the room that looked ordinary. Ciara stepped inside quietly, almost like she was afraid the room itself would reject her. She started with the bed, smoothing out the sheets with careful hands. Her movements were quick, practiced. She did not want to stay here longer than necessary. Then she heard it. Water running. She froze. Her eyes moved slowly toward the bathroom door. Someone was inside. Her grip tightened around the sheet. Her mother had told her the young master was away. She had repeated it twice that morning before leaving. “He won’t be back for a while.” So why— The bathroom door clicked open. Ciara turned too late. Killian Dacosta stepped out unhurriedly, like lateness was something that happened only to other people. His dark hair was damp, drops of water still tracing slowly down the side of his neck. He was already looking at his phone, scrolling through something, barely registering that she existed. There was a faint scar beneath his left jaw. Thin. Pale. The kind that had long stopped being a story and simply became part of someone’s face. She noticed it before she could stop herself. Which somehow felt worse than if he had noticed her first. Then he looked up. Ciara’s breath caught. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. “I didn’t know you were here. I was just cleaning. I’ll leave.” She moved to step past him. But he was already standing in front of her. Too close. “Stay.” The word was quiet, but it stopped her instantly. Ciara hesitated. He does not even know your name, she reminded herself. This is not kindness. This is convenience. “I can come back later,” she tried again, avoiding his eyes. “Or you can finish what you came here to do.” There was something in his tone. Not anger. Not exactly teasing either. Something in between that unsettled her. Slowly, she looked up. Killian was watching her with the mild curiosity of someone who had just noticed something out of place and had not decided yet whether it interested him. “You’re not one of the usual staff,” he said. “My mother works here,” Ciara replied. “She’s unwell, so I’m filling in.” His gaze stayed on her face. “What’s your name?” “Ciara.” He repeated it quietly, like he was testing how it sounded. “Ciara,” he said again, this time looking directly into her eyes. “You’re nervous.” “I’m not used to being here,” she admitted, even though she had not meant to admit anything at all. “That’s obvious.” One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not quite a smile. Heat crept into her face. Ciara turned away quickly and moved back toward the bed, focusing on straightening the pillows as though they required her full attention. Pretending his presence did not press against the room itself. “You can relax,” he said after a moment. “I’m not going to bite.” That sounded exactly like the kind of thing someone said right before they did. She kept her mouth shut and moved to the desk instead. Her hands steadied as she wiped down the surface. She picked up the face-down book and turned it carefully, spine upright the way it should have been. A small, pointless correction. The only power she had in this room. “I left it like that on purpose.” She stilled. “The page,” he said. “I hadn’t finished.” Ciara quietly placed the book back exactly as she had found it. Face-down. Bent spine. She did not apologize. For the first time, something shifted in his expression. Not annoyance. Something closer to interest. The room fell quiet again. Then she felt it. That particular stillness that happened when someone stopped moving and focused entirely on you. Ciara turned. He was closer now. She had not heard him move. “Why are you avoiding me?” he asked. “I’m not.” “You haven’t looked at me once.” Ciara swallowed. “I’m working.” His eyes dropped briefly to her hands before lifting back to her face. “And I’m watching.” Her heart skipped. There was no reason those words should settle so heavily in her chest. But they did. “Does that bother you?” he asked. It did. She shook her head anyway. Killian studied her for another moment before stepping back slightly, giving her space like it was a choice he had decided to make rather than something she deserved automatically. “Finish what you started,” he said, his voice lighter now. Ciara nodded and forced herself to move again. She cleaned the rest of the room quickly after that, painfully aware of him somewhere behind her the entire time. When she finally reached the door, relief loosened slightly in her chest. Then his voice stopped her again. “Ciara.” She paused but did not turn around. “Come back tomorrow.” It was not a question. Ciara tightened her grip on the cleaning cloth and walked out without answering. But all the way down the hallway, she could still feel his eyes on her. And somehow, that frightened her less than the fact that a part of her already wanted to go back.