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His hand slides from my hip, up the curve of my spine, tangling in my hair. He grips a fistful, pulling my head back gently, forcing my gaze up from the street below to our reflection in the glass.

“Look at us,” he growls, his voice a dark command against my ear. “Look at what we are. Look at the mother of my child, taking my cock in my office while the whole city watches.” I take in our reflections. He is fully clothed, every bit the powerful man he is determined to show the world, his face a mask of raw lust and possession. My body is flushed and writhing, pregnant and naked beneath him, with my mouth agape in a silent scream of bliss. The two of us are the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. “Show them how much you love my cock. Let them watch you come for me.”

His words are gasoline on the fire of my arousal. The coil inside me snaps. My vision whites out, my body convulsing as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashes over me. I scream his name, my voice echoing in the empty space, as my pussy clamps down on his cock. My legs tremble, threatening to give out, but his grip on me is iron, holding me up, fucking me through my orgasm until I crumple onto the table.

He doesn’t stop. His pace becomes erratic, his thrusts harder, deeper, more desperate. He’s chasing his own release now, using my body, claiming every last inch of me. The overstimulation is exquisite, a sweet, sharp agony that has tears leaking from my eyes.

“Come with me, angel,” he commands, his voice a ragged, breathless pant. “Come for our city.”

His words send another, smaller shockwave through me, and I quiver around him again. With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep and roars my name. I feel him pulse inside me, filling me with the hot, possessive flood of his release. He collapses over me, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, as he buries his face between my shoulder blades.

“This city…” he pants against my skin. “My empire… It begins and ends with you, angel.”

My gaze fixes on the glittering expanse of the skyline, on the world he plans to rule. I am his queen, the mother of his heir, and this is my kingdom, too.

Chapter Fifteen

Roman

I’ve been standing in this goddamn room for fifteen fucking hours, watching Cora suffer. I hate every second of it as I pace this sterile floor. I hate it because she’s in pain—real pain, the kind that twists her face and tears sounds from her throat that I’ve never heard before. And there is nothing I can do to fix it. I can’t even take it for her. She has to endure it, carry it, push through it, and that knowledge makes me want to rip this hospital apart with my bare hands, brick by fucking brick.

Cora is sprawled on the bed in the private suite I demanded. The entire top floor of New York Mercy Hospital has been cleared for us. The best doctors in the city fill this room, and every machine that beeps and whirs represents the finest technology money can buy. None of my meticulous planning eases the agony etched into her features.

Her hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, dark strands sticking to her pale skin. She’s been in active labor for seventeen hours, and pushing for four. Four fucking hours of watching her body strain until her muscles tremble with exhaustion. She is surrendering everything she has to bring my son into this world.

The doctors say it’s going well, that the baby is positioned right, that everything is progressing normally. But there’s nothing normal about this. There’s nothing normal about watching the woman you own, the woman who carries your name and your seed, writhing in agony while you stand there helpless, impotent, and fucking useless.

I grip her hand harder. She squeezes back, her nails digging crescents into my palm sharp enough to draw blood, and I welcome the pain. I deserve it. I did this to her. I put this baby inside her, I filled her womb with my seed, night after night. I claimed her, bred her, and now she’s paying the price in sweat and tears and screams.

“Another push, Cora,” the doctor says, her voice calm and infuriatingly serene. “I can see the head. You’re so close. One more big one.”

Cora sobs, a broken, fatigued sound that tears at my usually unfeeling heart. She gathers herself, her face contorting with effort and body curling forward despite the obvious exhaustion weighing down every limb. She pushes. She pushes so hard her whole body shakes, and her teeth grind together. I watch her give everything she has—every reserve of strength and ounce of will—to deliver what I planted inside her.

“So proud of you,” I praise. I don’t do soft. I don’t do gentle reassurances or whispered platitudes. But I mean this. I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life than I am of her right now. She’s been at this for seventeen hours, and she hasn’t quit. She hasn’t begged for it to stop. She’s enduring it because she knows what’s waiting at the end. My heir. “You are doing so well, angel.”

She collapses against the pillows, gasping, her chest heaving beneath the hospital gown as her eyes find mine. They are glazed with pain and swimming with tears. “Roman,” she whispers.

“I’m here,” I growl. I lean down, my face close to hers, my hand still locked in her grip, the other pushing the damp hair from her forehead. My touch is surprisingly gentle despite the coiled violence in my gut, the rage at my own helplessness. “I’m right here. And you’re going to do this. You’re going to do this for me. Your body was made for this, to carry my babies and bring them into this world. When they tell you to, you’re going to push. You’re going to deliver our son.”

She nods, more tears tracking down her temples into her sweat-dampened hair. I wipe them away with my thumb, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth are grinding. I hate this. I hate seeing her this vulnerable. I hate seeing her hurting in a way I can’t protect her from. But I’m also fucking mesmerized by her strength. She’s small, soft, delicate in ways that make me crazy with the need to shield her, yet she’s endured more pain than every man on this earth could ever handle. While they would have crumpled hours ago, she’s still giving everything for our child.

“Roman,” she gasps again, her grip tightening as another contraction builds. I can see it in her face, her brow furrowing and lips pressing together as her body instinctively braces for the wave of pain. “It’s coming.”

She screams. It’s a raw, primal sound torn from the depths of her soul, the sound of creation itself being ripped into existence. She curls forward, her hold on my hand crushing, her body bowing off the bed, and she pushes with everything she has. I watch her face turn red, and the veins stand out in her neck as her body gives its last reserves to deliver what I put inside her. She collapses onto the bed as a wet, angry—and loud as hell—cry fills the room.

“It’s a boy,” the doctor announces, her voice carrying that note of triumph they must teach in medical school. “A healthy boy, with a remarkable set of lungs.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as they lift the baby from between Cora’s legs. He’s covered in blood and fluid, his face scrunched up in rage, and his tiny fists already clenched like he’s ready to fight the world. He’s perfect. He’s fucking perfect. My son. My flesh and blood. The future of everything I’ve built and am building.

Cora sobs with relief, her body limp against the mattress as her chest heaves with weary breaths. I should tend to her and comfort her, but I can’t look away from our son. They’re working on him, suctioning his mouth, clamping the cord with a sterile instrument, wiping him with rough towels that make him scream even louder.

“Do you want to cut the cord, Dad?” the doctor asks.

I nod, stepping forward on legs that are unsteady. I take the scissors they offer and sever the physical tie between Cora and our son. The doctor lays him on Cora’s chest, and I watch her face transform. The pain and exhaustion all melt away into something radiant and holy. Her arms come up around him instinctively, holding him close as tears trickle down her cheeks.

“Hi, my darling boy,” she whispers, her hand trembling as she touches his back, his head, then counts his fingers and toes. “Hi, Vance.”

We named him weeks ago, lying in bed after I’d fucked her for the third time that night, her belly swollen between us. Vance Ashford. Strong. Uncompromising. A name that commands respect before he even opens his mouth. A name that sounds like legacy.