The second time was slower, more tender—a careful exploration after the desperate intensity of the first. He touched me like I was precious, fragile, though we both knew I wasn't. I'd survived kidnapping and captivity and the horrors of his world. I was stronger than either of us had expected.
But I let him be gentle anyway. Let him worship my body with his hands and mouth, let him bring me to climax with excruciating slowness before sliding inside me and making love to me like we had all the time in the world.
The third time was in the middle of the night.
I woke to find his hands already on me, his mouth at my breast, his cock hard against my thigh. He entered me from behind, spooning me against his chest, one hand splayed protectively over my stomach as he thrust into me with lazy, rolling movements.
"I woke up and you were here," he murmured against my ear. "I had to touch you. Had to make sure you were real."
"I'm real." I reached back to tangle my fingers in his hair. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
He brought me to orgasm with his fingers on my clit, his cock still moving inside me, his mouth hot on my neck. When he came, he groaned my name like a prayer, and I felt his release flood through me, warm and claiming.
Afterward, we lay tangled together in the darkness, his arms wrapped around me, my back pressed to his chest.
"What happens now?" I asked quietly.
"Now we rest. Heal. Let the doctors make sure you and the baby are truly okay."
"And after that?"
"After that..." He was quiet for a moment. "After that, we build. A life. A family. Something better than either of us had before."
"In New York?"
"If that's what you want. Or somewhere else. Anywhere you want to be." His arms tightened around me. "I don't care where we are, Gabrielle. As long as we're together."
"Together." I liked the sound of that. "The three of us."
"The three of us."
I felt his hand move to my stomach again, cradling the small swell where our child was growing. A child who would never know the loneliness I'd felt, the coldness of a father who saw me as an asset rather than a daughter. This child would be loved fiercely, protected absolutely, raised by parents who'd fought through hell to be together.
"I love you," I said again, because I would never tire of saying it.
"I love you." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "Now sleep, little dove. Tomorrow, we start our new life. But tonight, just rest."
I closed my eyes, safe in his arms, and let sleep take me.
For the first time since Vasily Chernov had stolen me from my old life, I wasn't dreaming of escape.
I was dreaming of home.
Chapter 22 - Vasily
Athens suited her.
I watched her from the doorway of the penthouse balcony, where she sat curled in a chair with a book she wasn't really reading. The morning light caught the auburn in her hair, turned her skin golden. The bruise on her cheek had faded to a pale yellow, barely visible. The cut on her throat was healing cleanly—a thin pink line that would disappear entirely within weeks.
She was recovering. Each day, a little more of the shadows left her eyes. Each night, her sleep grew less restless, the nightmares coming less frequently.
I should have been focused on the empire. On the aftermath of the war, the power vacuums, the repositioning that always followed violence on this scale. Semyon had been calling constantly, flooding my inbox with reports and analyses that demanded attention.
But I couldn't stop watching her.
"You're staring again," she said without looking up from her book.
"I'm admiring."
