"I'll always find you." The words were a vow, fierce and absolute. "No matter what happens, no matter where you are. I will tear the world apart to bring you home."
"I know." I kissed him again—softer this time, but no less intense. "I know you will."
"I love you, Gabrielle. More than I knew I was capable of loving anything. More than my empire, my legacy, my life." His thumb traced across my cheekbone, wiping away tears I hadn't realized were still falling. "You've changed everything. You've changed me."
"You've changed me too."
"For better or worse?"
"Better." I smiled despite the tears. "Definitely better."
He kissed me again, and this time, something shifted. The tenderness was still there, but underneath it—heat. Need. The desperate urge to affirm that we were both alive, both here, both choosing each other.
"I need you," I breathed against his mouth. "Please, Vasily. I need to feel you."
"Are you sure? After everything—the doctors said rest—"
"I don't want rest. I want you." I pulled at the towel wrapped around his waist, my fingers clumsy with urgency. "I need to know this is real. That we're real."
He groaned low in his throat and claimed my mouth again.
He laid me back on the white sheets like I was something sacred.
The silk robe fell open, baring my body to his gaze—the bruises, the small cuts, the evidence of violence that hadn't broken me. His eyes traced every mark, his jaw tightening.
"I'll never let anyone hurt you again," he said. "Never."
"I know."
He lowered himself over me, bracing his weight on his forearms, and kissed me again. Slow and deep, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that made my toes curl. I could feel him hard against my thigh, the evidence of his need pressing insistently.
But he didn't rush.
His mouth moved from my lips to my jaw, trailing fire down the column of my throat. He paused at the thin cut Pankratov's knife had left, pressing the gentlest kiss to the wound.
"Mine," he murmured against my skin. "You're mine, Gabrielle. My wife. My heart. The mother of my child."
"Yours," I agreed, my voice already breathless. "I'm yours."
He continued his descent, kissing across my collarbone, down the slope of my breast. When his mouth closed over my nipple, I arched off the bed with a gasp. He sucked gently, his tongue swirling around the peaked flesh, and the sensation shot straight to my core.
"So sensitive." He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. "Is this because of the pregnancy?"
"I don't—I don't know—" It was hard to think with his mouth on me, his hands stroking down my sides. "Everything feels more. Bigger."
"Then I'll make everything feel good." He kissed down the center of my stomach, pausing at the small swell where our baby was growing. "Hello, little one. Your mother and I have things to discuss. You'll have to be patient."
I laughed despite myself—a watery, exhausted sound. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm thorough." He kissed lower, over my hip, down my inner thigh. "There's a difference."
Then his mouth found my center, and I stopped laughing.
His tongue slid through my folds in one long, devastating stroke. I cried out, my hands flying to his hair, my hips bucking up against his face. He pressed me down with one arm across my stomach—firm but gentle, mindful of the baby—and continued his assault.
"You taste like heaven," he groaned against me. "Like mine. Like coming home."
"Vasily—"
