A baby. Our baby.
Whatever came next—Pankratov, the danger, the uncertain future—we would face it together. All three of us.
***
Later, in my bedroom, I undressed her slowly.
Not with the desperate urgency of our first time, when need had overwhelmed everything else. This was different. Reverent. I peeled away each layer of clothing like I was unwrapping something precious, something sacred.
Because she was. Sacred. The mother of my child.
"Vasily." She shivered as my fingers traced down her spine, finding the zipper of her dress. "You don't have to be so careful. I'm not fragile."
"I know you're not fragile." I lowered the zipper inch by inch, watching the fabric part to reveal the smooth expanse of her back. "But tonight, I want to take my time. I want to worship every inch of you."
The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but simple cotton underwear. I drank in the sight of her—the full curves of her breasts, the soft swell of her hips, the slight roundness of her belly that might have been my imagination but felt like a miracle.
"You're beautiful," I murmured, my hands skimming up her sides. "So beautiful it hurts to look at you."
"You say that a lot."
"Because it's true." I unclasped her bra, letting it fall away. "Every time I see you, I'm struck by it all over again."
She reached for me, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. I let her undress me, watching her face as she revealed my scars, the evidence of a life lived in violence. She traced each one with her fingertips—the knife wound on my ribs, the bullet scar on my shoulder, the dozen smaller marks scattered across my torso.
"You've survived so much," she said softly.
"I survive because I have something worth surviving for."
I lifted her and carried her to the bed, laying her down on the sheets with a gentleness I hadn't known I possessed. She looked up at me with those dark eyes that had haunted me since the first moment I'd seen her, and I felt something crack open in my chest.
I wasn't ready to name it. Wasn't sure I'd ever be ready. But it was there, growing, impossible to ignore.
I stretched out beside her, propping myself on one elbow. My free hand traced patterns on her skin—down the column of her throat, across her collarbone, circling her breasts without quite touching them.
"Tell me what you want," I said. "Anything. Everything."
"I want you to stop teasing me."
I smiled and lowered my head, taking one nipple into my mouth. She gasped, her back arching off the mattress, her hands flying to my hair. I lavished attention on one breast, then the other, until she was writhing beneath me, her hips seeking friction.
"Vasily, please—"
"Not yet." I kissed my way down her stomach, pausing at the soft swell beneath her navel. I pressed my lips there, against the place where our child was growing, and felt her tremble.
"Our baby is in there," I murmured against her skin. "Growing inside you. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"Show me."
I hooked my fingers in her underwear and drew it down her legs, baring her completely. She was already wet—I could see the evidence glistening in the lamplight. The sight made my mouth water.
I settled between her thighs, spreading her open with my thumbs. She was beautiful here too—pink and swollen and aching for me. I leaned in and breathed against her, watching her shiver.
"Vasily—"
I licked her, one long stroke from entrance to clit. She cried out, her thighs clamping around my head, her hands fisting in the sheets. I did it again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her.
"More," she gasped. "Please, more."
