My hand flies to my hair instinctively, trying to smooth it down while pretending I’m not.
Play it cool, Bella.
Too late, he saw you panic.
His gaze drops to mine, flicking over the disarray of my morning disaster look, and I swear there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like amusement in the form of a private joke he’s not ready to share yet.
I clear my throat, aiming for dignity and failing miserably.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter under my breath, tugging at the blanket to cover myself more.
His eyes linger just a heartbeat longer than they should. And then—
He steps fully into the room.
21
Konstantin
The first thing I see when I step into her room is not my children. It should be.
It should be Lev, already gloating like he’s won some grand war just by dragging his sister in here. It should be Alya, clutching her bear and beaming as if the sun rises only for her.
But no.
It’s her.
My wife.
She’s still tangled in the sheets, half-propped on her elbow, blinking the last sleep from those deep, sea-blue eyes. Her long, dark hair spills over her shoulders in waves—unruly, wild—and my gaze trails lower without permission.
The slip she’s wearing is indecently thin. Too thin. It skims over her curves like a second skin, whispering across the full swell of her breasts, dipping at her waist, clinging to her hips before vanishing beneath the bedclothes.
I’ve seen her naked before. I know the shape of her body. I know how her skin feels beneath my hands, soft and warm, like sin wrapped in silk. But this—this careless beauty, her caught-between-sleep-and-wakefulness look—it does something sharp to me. Something primal.
Heat licks beneath my ribs, low and slow, as my cock stirs in response.Not now.Not here. Not with my children standing two feet away.
But my body, treacherous thing that it is, doesn’t give a damn about timing. It just knows what it wants.
Her.
Bella shifts slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around herself, and the movement only draws my attention to the way the thin material hugs her breasts, her nipples peaked against the soft silk in the cool morning air.
A muscle ticks in my jaw. My pulse thuds once, heavy.
I drag my gaze—forcemy gaze—away from her body and focus on Alya, who’s bouncing on her toes like she’s about to explode from excitement.
“Papa!” she says, her voice bright and sweet. “Bella will take me to school today!”
There it is. The dagger straight to my gut.
I school my expression into something neutral, even as my mind races. No. Absolutely not.
Routine is the enemy of safety. A predictable schedule is a gift-wrapped invitation to my enemies. And Alya—my only daughter, my heart wrapped in porcelain—will never be exposed like that.
Not if I can help it. Not after what happened to Irina.
The flash of that old fear claws at me, dark and cold beneath the surface.
