I don't have words for what that does to me. Instead, I kiss her. It starts soft. Grateful. The kind of kiss that says things I don't know how to speak out loud. But the heat between us never stays quiet for long. Her fingers curl into my shirt, pulling me closer. I palm the back of her head and angle her mouth to take the kiss deeper, and she makes a sound against my lips that shoots straight to my cock.
When she shifts her hips and grinds against me, I groan into her mouth. She's warm and soft and pressed against the part of me that's rapidly losing interest in taking things slow.
"Avery." Her name comes out rough.
"Take me to bed." Her eyes are dusky and pleading, her lips swollen from my kiss. "I need you."
I don't make her ask twice.
I stand and lift her into my arms, then I carry her down the hall to our bedroom. Her mouth finds my jaw, my throat, the spot below my ear that makes me curse under my breath. By the time I lower her onto the mattress, I'm hard enough to drive nails and aching with the need to be inside her.
I spend the rest of the afternoon showing her exactly what she means to me. What they both mean to me. Taking my time. Savoring every sound, every shudder, every whispered version of my name on her lips.
Afterward, she falls asleep with her head on my chest, one hand curled protectively over her belly. I lie there in the quiet, too wired to sleep, my mind already turning over everything that comes next.
The wedding is just a couple of weeks away. Three hundred guests, every one of them representing a variable I need to account for. Security, venues, the press circling like sharks. A thousand decisions I have no idea how to make.
I glance toward the kitchen, where the ultrasound still sits on the island. That grainy image. Our bean, Avery called it. The tiny heartbeat I heard for the first time today, so fast and strong it almost broke me.
My wife. My child. This life I never let myself want until now.
I've spent years building walls. Accumulating power. Making damn sure nothing could touch me. And now, with Avery warm against my side and our baby growing inside her, I understand something with perfect clarity.
I've never had this much to lose.
19
AVERY
The bodice feels abit tighter than I remember.
I stand on the raised platform at House of Delaire, surrounded by mirrors and holding my breath as Yuki circles with pins and measuring tape. The gown's architectural lines catch the afternoon light streaming through the atelier's tall windows, transforming silk and structure into something that looks less like fabric and more like sculpture.
"Exhale for me, please," Yuki says, her voice professionally neutral as she marks something on her tablet. "I need to check the fit across the ribs."
I obey, but even with empty lungs, the bodice presses against me differently than it did the last time. Tighter across the bust. Snugger at the waist. I straighten my spine, trying to create space that isn't there.
It can’t be the pregnancy already? More likely, it’s just the result of Nick's relentless campaign to feed me every few hours like I might wither without constant supervision.
"Too many of my fiancé's home-cooked meals," I say lightly when Yuki pauses, her brow furrowing at whatever measurement she's noted.
She smiles. "That’s a nice problem to have. We'll adjust."
Across the room near the atelier's front windows, my shadow for the day, Kelsey O'Connor, shifts her weight. She's positioned herself where she can watch both the door and me simultaneously, close enough to intervene, far enough to be unobtrusive.
I'd protested when Nick insisted on sending one of Gabe’s team along with me for my dress fitting. But he'd given me that look—the one that saysthis isn't a negotiation.
In the end, I relented. Easier than arguing with him. And honestly, after the paparazzi issues we’ve had, after their shouted questions about my mother's conviction and their camera flashes that strobed in my face outside this studio, maybe it's not the worst idea.
He'd also insisted that Gabe be briefed on the pregnancy. Kelsey too. I didn’t even try to debate that. If I’m resigned to having a security detail, it only makes sense that they need to know they're protecting more than just me.
Kelsey’s pressed blazer and slacks don't fool anyone. Neither does her discreet earpiece or the military bearing that announces her assecurityas clearly as if she'd worn a uniform. Visible below her right sleeve is a state-of-the-art prosthetic, evidence of the combat injury she suffered before retiring from active duty. She wears another prosthesis under her right pant leg, though no one would ever know it from looking at her or seeing her work. She’s impeccably competent and, I have to admit, a comforting presence in general.
"You're looking lovely as ever," Serena says, approaching with a warmth that feels genuine rather than professional. She studies me in the mirror, head tilted, that artistic assessmentI've come to recognize. "You’re absolutely glowing in this gown today."
I stifle my smile, since I know the real reason. “Thanks.”
Things have been good lately. It’s been three days since the ultrasound. The tabloid scandal from more than a week ago feels distant now. Background noise. Nick’s done everything in his power to remove any stress or drama from our lives, so all that’s left for me to do is prepare for our wedding so we can begin getting ready to welcome our baby in eight months.
