Page 155 of Dark King Daddy

“Maybe I am.”

He studied my face. Whatever he found there made his own mouth move—a small, slow curve that I had learned to recognize as the real thing. Not the ghost. Not the diplomatic acknowledgment. The genuine article.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“I like being married to you.”

His eyebrows rose. A fraction. The kind of movement that on Daniil constituted a dramatic reaction.

“Do you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Since when?”

“Since right now. Ask me again in five minutes. Maybe I’ll have changed my mind.”

He reached for me. His hand found my waist under the covers and he pulled me toward him—not urgently, not with the purpose that preceded other things. Just pulling. Closing distance. I went. I let my body slide across the sheet until my forehead rested against his collarbone and his arm settled across my hip.

He was warm. His chest moved against my forehead with each breath. Slow. Even.

“I like being married to you,” I said again. “I’m finding I like saying things I mean. It’s a new hobby.”

“Promising hobby.”

“I think so. I might take it up professionally.”

His hand moved on my hip. His thumb traced a small circle against the cotton of my pajamas—the cartoon cat ones.

“Ksyusha.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

My chest did something. I refused to analyze it. I let it happen—the warmth, the spread of it, the way it moved from my ribs outward through my shoulders and down my arms and into my fingers where they rested against his chest.

“I love you,” I said. “I said it last night and I want to say it again this morning and I suspect I will want to say it at lunch. You may need to develop a tolerance.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’m serious. I’ve been bottling this for days. The cork is out. There’s no putting it back.”

“Good.”

I pulled back enough to see his face. The smile was still there. Faint, warm, devastating in its rarity. I had seen him negotiate with hostile syndicates. I had seen him sit in his father’s chair. I had seen him spank me until I came apart. I had never seen him look at me the way he was looking at me now.

“I love you,” I said. Third time. It was getting easier. Each repetition stripped another layer of fear away—the fear of meaning it, the fear of it being true, the fear of wanting something I could lose.

“I heard you the first two times.”

“I know. I just like saying it.”

“Then say it.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”