“I considered it,” he admits. “But she’s their mother. They’ve lost enough.”
There it is. The man who once vowed he had no heart. The man who claimed he could never love. And yet, here he is, choosing mercy over revenge.
I squeeze his hand, my fingers threading through his.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For not becoming him.”
His eyes meet mine, and in them, I see everything he can’t say. Everything he’s afraid to feel.
The question slips out before I can stop it. “How… did you know about the baby?”
He rolls his eyes, a low, exasperated sound leaving his throat.
“Questions, questions,” he mutters, and his thumb starts tracing lazy patterns over the back of my hand. The rough drag of his calluses is a gentle rasp against my skin, grounding me. “One of the maids overheard you and my mother in the garden. She told me just before everything happened at Eagle Point.”
I close my eyes, processing this. “Yelena gave me an ultimatum. Terminate the pregnancy or leave with money and never tell you. Two weeks to decide.”
His hand tightens on mine, a flash of something dangerous crossing his face. “She had no right.”
“She was protecting you. The succession. The family.”
“You are family,” he says, the words firm, brooking no argument.
The simple declaration steals my breath. I search his face, looking for any sign that he’s saying what he thinks I want to hear. Instead, I find only certainty—and something else, something I’ve glimpsed only in rare, unguarded moments.
“What happens now?” I ask, afraid of the answer but needing to know.
Konstantin shifts closer, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “Now, Isabella Marquez,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that sends shivers across my skin, “ty moya koroleva i edinstvennaya.”
The Russian flows from his lips like warm honey, the unfamiliar words somehow feeling like a caress.
“What does that mean?” I ask, reaching up to touch his face, the stubble rough against my palm.
“It means you are my queen and my only one,” he translates, turning his head to press a kiss to my palm. “The contract is void. This—us—it’s real now. If you want it to be.”
My heart stutters in my chest, my pulse a wild, reckless drum. “Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”
Something cracks open in his expression, the hard edges softening, his eyes going molten. He leans in, a shuddering breath escaping him like he’s been holding it in for years.
Then, without a word, he shifts me gently, one arm sliding beneath my shoulders as he lifts me and moves me to the side of the bed. His hand stays at the small of my back, holding me as he climbs in beside me.
His body stretches out long and solid, the mattress sinking beneath his weight. The scent of him surrounds me—clean, dark, and devastatingly male. The heat of his chest seeps into me as he tucks me against him, my cheek resting over his heart, his arm wrapping around my waist like a steel band.
His other hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and he presses his lips to my temple, lingering there, breathing me in.
“You should sleep,milaya,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough against my skin.
“You should sleep,” I counter, tipping my head up to look at him. “You look exhausted.”
“Stubborn,” he says, and a half-smile tugs at his mouth, lazy and devastating.
“Pot. Kettle,” I say, a small, sleepy grin pulling at my own lips.
His chest rumbles beneath my cheek, a soft, contented sound, and he lifts my hand, pressing it over his heart. It pounds beneath my palm, strong and steady, the beat thrumming through me like a lullaby.
He squeezes my hand, holding it tight to his chest, his eyes falling shut.
“Stay here,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my forehead. “Stay right here.”
