"I've never been more sure of anything."
He stands in one fluid motion, pulling me up with him. Then his arms are around me, lifting me off my feet, and he's carrying me out of the greenhouse, across the darkening grounds, into the house that has become our home.
The ring glitters on my finger.
His heart pounds against my cheek.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that whatever comes next—we'll face it together.
Chapter 28 - Bianca
He carries me through the house like I weigh nothing.
I'm vaguely aware of Mrs. Novak's startled expression as we pass through the main hall, of the guards who carefully avert their eyes, of the stairs that Misha takes two at a time without breaking stride. But mostly I'm aware of him—the heat of his body, the strength of his arms, the way his jaw is set with determination.
And the ring on my finger, catching the light with every step.
He kicks open the bedroom door and sets me down gently, his hands lingering on my waist. The room is dim, lit only by the last rays of sunset filtering through the curtains, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
"Bianca." His voice is rough, strained. "If you want to stop—"
I silence him with a kiss.
This time there's no hesitation, no gentle exploration. I pour everything into it—the fear and the relief, the grief and the joy, the overwhelming love that threatens to split me open. He responds in kind, his hands fisting in my hair, his tongue sliding against mine, claiming me with every stroke.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I don't want to stop," I say. "I want you. All of you. Tonight."
Something shifts in his expression—a crack in the control he always maintains, a flash of raw hunger that makes my stomach clench.
"Then you'll have me," he says. "Every part of me."
He kisses me again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands slide down my sides, tracing the curves of my body through my clothes, relearning the shape of me. I've changed since our first time together—my belly is rounder now, my breasts fuller—but he touches me like I'm precious. Like I'm perfect.
His fingers find the hem of my sweater and tug upward. I raise my arms, letting him pull it over my head, and then I'm standing before him in just my bra and jeans, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin.
He stares at me, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful."
I reach for his shirt, but he catches my hands, pressing them back to my sides.
"Not yet. Let me look at you."
He circles me slowly, like a predator assessing prey. I feel his gaze on every inch of my skin—my shoulders, my back, the swell of my breasts above the lace of my bra. When he stops behind me, I can feel the heat radiating from his body, can hear the controlled rasp of his breathing.
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me back against him. I gasp at the contact—at the hard length of him pressing against my lower back, at the possessiveness in his grip.
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His voice is a growl against my ear. "What you've always done to me?"
"Tell me."
"You make me lose control." His hands slide up my ribcage, brushing the undersides of my breasts. "You make mewant things I've never wanted. Feel things I never thought I could feel."
His fingers trace the edge of my bra, teasing, tormenting.
"I've wanted you since the moment I saw you," he continues. "At that gala, two years ago. You were talking about hearts, about how they work, and all I could think about was how badly I wanted to know if yours would beat faster when I touched you."
