"You keep touching my belly," I murmur during a quiet moment.
"Our baby is in there."
"I know."
"I still can't believe it." He presses his hand flat against the small swell. "I spent fifty years alone. Told myself I didn't needanyone. And now I have you, and I have this—" His voice catches. "I don't deserve it."
"Stop saying that."
"It's true."
"It's not." I turn in his arms, face him. "You saved me. You chose me. You gave me everything I ever wanted." I take his face in my hands. "You deserve every bit of happiness we have. You deservethis."
He closes his eyes. Presses his forehead to mine.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too. Now stop being sad at our wedding and dance with me."
He laughs—that surprised, genuine laugh I love so much—and pulls me onto the small dance floor.
***
We dance until my feet hurt, then dance some more.
By the time the last guest leaves, I'm exhausted in the best possible way. My feet ache from dancing, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and I can't stop touching him—his arm, his hand, the ring on his finger that matches mine.
Leonid scoops me up before I can protest—"I can walk, you know"—and carries me to our bedroom. Lays me down on the bed like I'm something he still can't believe he gets to keep.
"I have a wedding present for you," he says.
"You've given me enough."
"Never." He pulls a small velvet box from his jacket pocket. "Open it."
I sit up, take the box, flip it open. Inside is a delicate gold necklace with a small pendant—a wolf, studded with tiny diamonds.
"It's the Volkov symbol," he explains. "It means you're family now. Not just mine—theirs. Protected by the Bratva. Claimed."
My throat tightens. "Leonid..."
"You wanted to belong somewhere." He takes the necklace, clasps it around my neck. The pendant rests just above my collarbone, warm against my skin. "Now you do. Forever."
I pull him down and kiss him until neither of us can breathe.
He undresses me slowly.
Peels the wedding dress off my shoulders, lets it pool at my feet. His eyes rake over me—the white lace bra, the matching underwear, the small swell of my stomach where our baby grows.
"Fuck." The word comes out reverent. Wrecked. "Look at you."
He drops to his knees.
Right there, still in his wedding suit, he kneels before me and presses his mouth to my stomach. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady while he kisses every inch of the bump.
"My wife," he murmurs against my skin. "Carrying my baby."
"Leonid."
