He was quiet, thinking. "The truth. That their mother was the bravest person I ever met. That she saved me before I saved her. That they were born from something terrible, but they're proof that good can come from darkness."
"That's beautiful."
"You make me better,principessa. You and them. You make me want to be the man they deserve."
"You already are."
We sat in silence after that, his hand never leaving my stomach, both of us lost in thoughts of the future we were fighting so hard to build.
The desert night had turned cold, but I didn't want to move. Didn't want to break the spell of this moment—the two of us under infinite stars, his hand warm on my stomach where our children grew.
"We should go inside," Alessio said finally. "You're shivering."
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn." But he was already standing, pulling me up with him. "Come on. I'll warm you up."
The look he gave me wasn't subtle. After everything—the fear, the exhaustion, the constant nausea—I should have wanted nothing more than sleep.
But I wanted him more.
Inside, he turned to face me, and something shifted in the air between us. The tenderness from the patio was still there, but underneath it, something hungrier. Something that had been waiting.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his hand sliding to my hip. "With the babies—"
"The doctor said it's fine. More than fine." I stepped closer, eliminating the space between us. "I want to feel something good, Alessio. I want to feel alive."
He kissed me then—slow at first, careful, like I might break. I bit his lower lip, a reminder that I wouldn't.
The kiss deepened. His hands found the hem of my shirt, and I lifted my arms, let him pull it over my head. He looked at me in the dim light—my body already changing, breasts fuller, the slight curve of my stomach where our children grew.
"Beautiful," he murmured, and the way he said it—reverent, almost awed—made my throat tight.
"Less talking." I reached for his shirt. "More touching."
He laughed, low and warm, and helped me pull it off. Then his mouth was on my neck, my collarbone, trailing lower while his hands worked at my pants.
We made it to the bedroom somehow, shedding clothes along the way. He laid me down on the bed with such gentleness it made my heart ache. His hands traced every change in my body—the fuller breasts, the rounded belly, the silvering stretch marks that mapped where our children grew.
"You're carrying our babies," he said quietly, pressing kisses along my stomach. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Tears pricked my eyes. "Alessio—"
"Let me worship you properly." He settled between my thighs, his eyes meeting mine. "Let me show you how much I love every part of you."
His mouth found me, and coherent thought scattered.
He moved slowly, reverently, like he had all the time in the world. No urgency, no rush—just devoted attention that made me feel cherished in a way I'd never experienced. His beard scratched sensitively against my inner thighs as he worked, building pleasure in slow, deliberate waves.
My hands threaded through his hair, not pulling, just touching, connecting. "Alessio, I need—"
"I know what you need, amore." His voice was muffled but certain. "I've got you."
He changed his rhythm, added pressure exactly where I needed it, and the orgasm rolled through me like a slow sunrise—building, warming, flooding every nerve with golden heat.
I trembled through it, and he gentled me down with soft kisses pressed to my thighs, my hips, the curve of my belly.
"Hi, babies," he whispered against my skin. "Your papà loves your mama very much."
