"What?"
He stood, offered his hand. I took it, let him lead me through the penthouse to the guest bedroom we'd been converting.
He opened the door.
The nursery.
Not finished, but started. The walls had been painted a soft, warm yellow. A crib frame stood in the corner, still needing assembly. Paint samples were taped to one wall, swatches of fabric draped over the windowsill.
"When did you do this?" I breathed.
"This week. While you were resting. I wanted to surprise you."
I walked into the room slowly, taking in every detail. "It's perfect."
"It's not done yet. But I wanted you to see. To know that I'm committed to this. To them. To us."
Tears spilled over. Damn hormones. "This is the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me."
"It's just paint."
"It's not just paint. It's a promise. That you're all in. That we're building this together."
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, hands resting on my small bump. "I am all in. Completely. Whatever you need. Whatever the baby needs. It's yours."
We stood like that, in the unfinished nursery, imagining what it would look like in seven months. A crib with a sleeping baby. A rocking chair for late-night feedings. Toys scattered on the floor.
A family.
"We should pick out furniture," I said. "And a changing table. And curtains."
"Whatever you want."
"I want to do it together. Make decisions together."
"Then that's what we'll do."
I turned in his arms, looked up at him. This man who'd started as my captor and become my partner. My love. The father of my child.
"Thank you," I said. "For all of this. For giving me a reason to be happy."
"You did that yourself. I just stopped standing in your way."
"Don't sell yourself short. You chose me too. Over the empire. Over everything.
"Easiest choice I ever made."
We kissed again, deeper this time. Need building between us. His hands traced down my sides, careful of my tender breasts, mindful of my exhaustion.
"We should christen the nursery," I murmured against his mouth.
"It doesn't even have furniture yet."
"We'll improvise."
He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You're going to be the death of me."
He lifted me—carefully, always careful now—and carried me to the master bedroom. The nursery could wait. Right now, this was about us. Connection. Love. The physical proof that what we had was real and chosen and ours.
