Page 81 of Cruel Submission

No one will take her from me. Not my father. Not anyone.

I shift onto my elbow, studying her face. The exhaustion that’s been carving lines around her mouth has smoothed out in sleep. Her lips part slightly with each exhale. Dark lashes fan against her cheeks. She looks younger like this—softer, without all that fire and suspicion she wears when she’s awake.

Beautiful.

She’s always been beautiful. Even at that disaster of a wedding, when her dress split, and I couldn’t stop staring. Even when she was shouting at me in the corridor, demanding answers I wouldn’t give. Even yesterday, when she looked at me like nothing made sense.

Now she’s here. In my bed. Carrying my child.

Bozhe moi.

My hand moves before I can think better of it. I ease back the sheet covering her torso. The fabric whispers as it slides down, exposing the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach.

Except it’s not flat anymore.

There. Right there.

The bump is small—barely visible unless you’re looking for it. But I’m looking. Now that I know, I can’t unsee it. The slight roundness just below her navel. The way her skin stretches differently. The life growing beneath.

My second baby.

The thought slams into me sideways. Aleks upstairs in his crib, tiny fists curled against his chest. And this one here, still hidden, still safe inside Mirabel, where nothing can hurt them.

Two children.

My throat tightens.

I reach out, fingers hovering above her skin. Then I touch. Just my fingertips at first, tracing the curve of that small bump. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I spread my palm flat, covering the place where our baby grows.

Mine. This child is mine. She is mine.

Sara. We could call her Sara. Or maybe it’ll be another boy. It doesn’t matter. They’re mine.

They’re both mine.

And I’ll destroy anyone who threatens them.

Mirabel winces. It’s subtle—the smallest tightening around her eyes, a hitch in her breathing. That’s how I know she’s awake. But she keeps her eyes closed, lying still beneath my touch.

Playing possum.

I don’t call her on it. Instead, I let my hand slide up, brushing aside the strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead. I trace the line of her brow, the angle of her cheekbone. Study her face like I’m memorizing it.

The resemblance hits me again.

Genetics really is fucking amazing. Debra is a carbon copy.

She’s getting better. Slowly. Dr. Harrison says she’s making progress. She’s eating more, sleeping better. Since she’s been here, she’s put on weight—the kind that comes from feeling safe, from not having to fight for every breath. Now there’s color in her cheeks. Strength returning to her frame.

I doubt she had much of an appetite in my father’s house.

The understatement tastes bitter. Years of rape and torture reduced to “poor appetite.” My teeth grind together. I force my mouth to relax before I crack a molar.

My hand moves lower, cupping Mirabel’s breast. The weight of it fills my palm. I remember these. The ones I admired at my wedding that went to hell. The way they looked in that dress, the way the fabric clung before it split.

It all started there.

In that registry office with the torn dress and the pregnant fiancée I walked away from. The shocked faces. Rosanna’s tears. Mirabel’s wide eyes as I turned my back on everything.