“As you should be,” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating straight through me. I felt the steady, relentless thud of his heart beneath my palm—strong, unbothered, alive.
Before I could gather my thoughts, before I could summon anger or pride, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Not possessive—but intimate enough to unravel me. His lips lingered just a second too long, sending heat spiraling through my veins.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze dark and intent. “I didn’t mean for you to panic.” A pause. Then, softer still, almost honest: “I only wanted you to come to me.”
The words wrapped around my ribs like a tightening band.
I stared at him, suspended between water and moonlight, fear and desire, knowing with a sick certainty that this—this pull between us—was far more dangerous than the pool ever could be.
And the worst part?
Some treacherous part of me had come to him willingly.
“You knew I’d dive in?” I asked, incredulous, even as my hands instinctively clutched his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the taut muscle beneath the wet skin. My hair plastered to my face, droplets running down my neck, I felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with water.
“I played my cards,” he admitted, a flicker of satisfaction lighting his storm-gray eyes. “But it warms my heart knowing you’d risk your life for mine. We’re barely strangers, yet here you are—diving into the deep end for a man you claim to tolerate for three months.”
I exhaled, tension bleeding out of me as we floated in the pool, water lapping gently against our bodies. The temptation of him—so close, so bare—was almost unbearable. I pressed my chin to his chest, inhaling the scent of him, a mixture of chlorine, earth, and something unmistakably Dmitri. Focusing on anything else became imperative.
“Meanwhile,” he said, his voice steadier, “I could teach you how to swim. Properly. You know... without nearly drowning in the process.”
I chuckled, low and rich, the sound vibrating through my chest into his. “I don’t think swimming lessons are what I need from you right now.”
“No—” I said quickly, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant Vanya.” I drew a breath, grounding myself. “He knows the basics of swimming, but he could be better. Safer. If you could teach him.” My voice faltered despite my effort to steady it. “I just... I want him to be safe.”
Dmitri’s expression softened, subtle but unmistakable. The hardness in his eyes ebbed just a fraction, replaced by something warmer, something unspoken but infinitely protective. “My schedule is brutal,” he said at last, voice low and steady, “but I wouldn’t mind carving out time for him. Not in the slightest.”
The sincerity behind the words struck me like a small miracle. Here he was, still the same man who had made my life both heaven and hell, offering care without a trace of ego. A quiet warmth spread through me, momentarily drowning the years of bitterness, betrayal, and fear that clung to my heart.
I glanced up at him, eyes catching the moonlight on his wet hair, the sharp planes of his jaw softened by the water, the faintest tension in his shoulders gone. “You mean that?” I asked quietly, disbelief mingling with relief.
“I do,” he said simply, brushing a damp strand of hair from my face.
His fingers lingered just a second too long at my temple, and I caught my breath. “Vanya’s safety comes first. Always. You’ve carried him all this way. I won’t let anyone—or anything—take him from you again. That includes me, if necessary.”
A shiver ran through me, equal parts fear and longing. He spoke not as a husband, not yet as a lover, but as a man who could—and would—move mountains for the boy. And for me, perhaps, though he would never admit it out loud.
Chapter 13
PENELOPE
“I’m sorry you have to play the role of his father for the next three months,” I said lightly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I tried to frame it as a tease, but my eyes betrayed me.
I watched his face closely, searching for any flicker of discomfort, any instinctive rejection of the boy who shared his blood—though he didn’t know it yet.
Dmitri didn’t scoff. Didn’t smirk.
Instead, something in him softened.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible—the easing of his jaw, the way his gaze drifted somewhere distant as if he were picturing Vanya’s face. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.
“I would be honored to be his father for a lifetime.”
The words hit me harder than any shout ever could.
“He’s sharp,” Dmitri continued, eyes back on mine now, intent and thoughtful. “Smarter than most children twice his age. Curious. Fearless when he needs to be.” A pause. “But kind. That’s the part that stays with you. He listens when you speak—really listens. And the way he already positions himself in front of you when he senses tension?” His mouth curved slightly. “That’s instinct. You don’t teach that. That’s who he is.”
