Sophie
Iwoke to the sound of waves crashing against the shore, a gentle rhythm that had replaced the nightmares of gunfire and screams. Sunlight streamed through gauzy white curtains, painting golden patterns across the bed. For a moment, I simply breathed, filling my lungs with salty air instead of fear.
Three months had passed since we'd fled the city—first to the mountain refuge in Switzerland, where we'd spent six weeks in isolation, then to this secluded coastal villa when Vittorio decided we needed somewhere our son could grow up with sun and sea instead of snow and stone. Three months of healing in this Atlantic sanctuary, perched on a cliff overlookingthePortuguese coast.
I placed my hand on my swollen belly, now unmistakably round beneath my thin nightgown. "Good morning, little one," I whispered, feeling the flutter of movement beneath my palm. Last month'sultrasound in Switzerland had revealed we were having a son—Vittorio had gripped my hand so tightly during the appointment, his eyes never leaving the grainy black and white image on the screen. This baby, our son, was my anchor—a symbol of hope in a world that had once felt so dark.
The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam as Vittorio emerged, a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to his chest, catching the morning light. Even now, the sight of him made my breath catch.
"You're staring," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in that half-smile that still made my heart race.
"Can you blame me?" I stretched lazily, watching his eyes darken as the sheet slipped lower.
He crossed to the bed, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead, then my lips, then my belly. "Buongiorno, mia regina. How are my queen and son this morning?"
"We're perfect," I said, and for the first time in my life, I meant it.
Later, I sat on the terrace with my watercolors, attempting to capture the way the sunlight danced across the water. I'd never painted before coming here, but the quiet days had awakened something creative in me. The table beside me held a stack of books on pregnancy and child development, dog-eared and highlighted.
Vittorio appeared with two glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice, setting one beside me before taking the chair opposite. He wore linen pants and an unbuttoned shirt, his feet bare against the sun-warmed tiles. The dangerous edge that had defined him in the city had softened here. However, I knew it still existed, buried just beneath the surface.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, watching me over the rim of his glass.
"How different you look here," I said honestly. "Relaxed. Almost… normal."
He laughed, the sound still rare enough to make me smile. "Don't tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation."
"Your secret's safe with me, Marcus Blackwood," I teased. The new name still felt strange on my tongue, but less so each day. But I still preferred using his real name, especially in our private space where we could simply be ourselves.
We fell into our morning routine—a walk along the private beach, planning the nursery, and discussing names for our son. Sometimes I marveled at how easily we'd slipped into this partnership, this domestic tranquility that should have felt impossible given our beginning.
The afternoon brought a lazy heat that made everything slow and dreamlike. I dozed in the shade while Vittorio read, occasionally reaching over to trace patterns on my belly when the baby kicked. These were the moments I treasured most—the quiet ones where we could simply exist without the weight of the past pressing down on us.
That evening, after a dinner of fresh fish and local wine—sparkling water for me—we stood on the balcony watching stars emerge over the water. Vittorio's arms encircled me from behind, his hands cradling my belly.
"I never thought I could have this," he murmured against my hair.
I turned in his arms, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. "Neither did I."
His eyes searched mine, and for a moment, the mask slipped, revealing the man beneath—a man who had known only betrayal and violence, a man who had never allowed himself to dream of something like this. "You're everything to me, Sophie," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
Before I could respond, he lifted me as if I weighed nothing, carrying me to our bed. The room was bathed in moonlight, the air thick with the scent of salt and jasmine. He laid me down gently, his hands moving to the ties of my nightgown, loosening them with deliberate slowness.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his gaze roaming over my body with a hunger that made my skin flush.
"And you're impossible," I teased, though my heart was pounding.
He smiled, that dangerous half-smile that always made me weak. "Impossible, am I?"
Before I could respond, his lips were on mine, his kiss deep and demanding. His hands moved over me, mapping every curve, every swell, as if memorizing the shape of me. I moaned into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.
"Vittorio," I breathed, my voice thick with need.
"Shh," he murmured, trailing kisses down my neck, his hands sliding beneath my nightgown to cup my breasts. His touch was firm yet reverent, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they pebbled beneath his touch.
I arched into him, my body alive with sensation. "Please," I whispered, my voice barely audible.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound that sent shivers down my spine. "Patience, Bella. I'm not done yet."
