The front door clicks open. Footsteps echo through the hall, heavy and familiar.
“Welcome home,” I murmur softly, looking up as Dmitry steps into the room.
He looks every inch the man he was meant to become. Broader now, more sure of himself. His dark hair is a little longer, his jaw dusted with stubble that makes him look even more dangerous. His shirt is half unbuttoned, the ink on his chest visible beneath the dim light. The tattoos crawl up his throat, intricate and sharp, the mark of power. His glasses catch the glow from the fire, softening the danger into something beautifully human.
I can’t help smiling. “You’re starting to look like a real crime boss now.”
He smirks, tugging at his collar. “And you look like one’s wife.”
“I am one’s wife,” I say, my voice playful but tender.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me before he even reaches my chair. He leans down, kissing me first—slow, deep, and warm—and then presses a kiss to our daughter’s soft head.
“She’s getting bigger,” he says quietly. “Looks more like you every day.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re blind. She’s your little twin. Even the way she frowns in her sleep—it’s you.”
He chuckles, brushing his knuckles down our baby’s cheek. “Then she’s perfect.”
“She is,” I whisper, gazing down at her. Her lashes flutter against her plump cheeks, and she lets out a tiny sigh. My heart aches with love. “I didn’t think I could love anything this much.”
Dmitry kneels beside the chair, his hand resting on my thigh, his eyes soft. “You’ve been amazing, Callista. The way you take care of her, of us... I couldn’t ask for more.”
I reach out, threading my fingers through his hair. “And you’ve given me everything. This home. This peace. A life where I don’t have to worry about anything but our daughter.”
He kisses my hand, his lips warm against my skin. “You earned this. You made me believe it was possible. I’ve been busy lately, but tonight... tonight is just for us.”
I smile, rocking our daughter gently as the firelight flickers across the room. “I’d like that. You, me, and her. That’s all I need.”
He stands, lifting me carefully from the chair, his arm steady around my waist. “Good. Because that’s all you’ll ever have to need.”
As he carries us toward the bedroom, our baby nestled between us, I glance around the home we built together—the soft lights, the quiet luxury, the warmth that fills every corner.
My life is everything I used to dream of and more. I have a husband who worships me, a child who carries both our hearts, and a future that feels endlessly bright.
We graduated from college before I gave birth. Dmitry was constantly with me, watching me throughout my pregnancy, making sure I got everything I needed, even though he was often on his laptop. In a few months, I’ll launch my own business. For now, though, I have everything I ever wanted.
The baby finishes nursing, her tiny mouth slackening as she drifts into a peaceful sleep. I burp her gently, feeling the warm bubble of air escape her lips. Dmitry watches, his eyes filled with a mix of love and awe. He takes her from my arms, cradling her close to his chest as we walk to the nursery.
The room is soft and inviting, with a mobile of stars and moons hanging over the crib. Dmitry lays her down carefully, tucking the blanket around her. We both watch her for a moment, her little chest rising and falling with each breath.
“She’s perfect,” Dmitry murmurs, his voice low and gentle.
I nod, a smile tugging at my lips. “She is.”
As we walk back to our bedroom, I winch slightly, my swollen breasts brushing against the fabric of my sweater. Dmitry notices instantly.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern etched on his face.
“My breasts,” I say softly. “They’re still sore. She didn’t drink all my milk.”
His eyes darken with a mix of desire and protectiveness. “Let me help you.”
He guides me to the bed, his hands gentle as he lifts my sweater over my head. My breasts are heavy and sensitive, milk leaking from the engorged nipples. Dmitry’s breath catches as he takes in the sight of my postpartum body.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, his hands tracing the curve of my hips, the soft roundness of my belly. “So maternal and perfect.”
He cups my breasts, his thumbs brushing over the swollen nipples. I gasp, the sensation a mix of pleasure and pain. He leans down, his mouth capturing one nipple, sucking gently. The relief is instant, a warm rush of milk flowing into his mouth. He swallows, his eyes never leaving mine.
