Page 99 of Bratva Bride
"Like control instead of connection," he finished, understanding immediately. "I'm going to let go of your hip now, okay? Very slowly."
His hand released, moving to rest on the rug beside us instead. Already the panic was fading, replaced by wonder. I'd said yellow and the world hadn't ended. He hadn't been angry or frustrated or dismissive. He'd just . . . stopped.
"Better?" he asked, still perfectly still inside me.
"Better," I breathed, then experimentally moved my hips. The angle was different now, less overwhelming. "Can we . . . can I be on top? I think I need to control the pace."
"Whatever you need," he said, and carefully, maintaining connection, we shifted positions.
Sitting above him, I could see everything—his face, his hands resting carefully on my thighs without gripping, the way he watched me with attention that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with care. This was better. This was safe.
I started moving slowly, finding my rhythm, and his hands stayed gentle on my thighs—present but not controlling, grounding but not restraining.
"That's it," he encouraged, voice rough with held-back pleasure. "Take what you need."
The orgasm built differently this time—not overwhelming but intentional, something I was choosing rather than having done to me. When it crested, I cried—tears of release and relief and the profound safety of having stopped when I needed to and started again when I was ready.
Ivan followed me over, my name on his lips like prayer, his hands still gentle even in his climax.
After, he gathered me against his chest, pulling a soft blanket over us while I floated in the intersection of little space and post-orgasmic haze. His fingers combed through my hair while he whispered praise—how brave I'd been to use my safeword, how proud he was, how perfect I was for him.
"This," I mumbled against his chest, already slipping deeper into little space now that my body had gotten what it needed, "this is what healthy looks like."
"Messy," he agreed, kissing the top of my head. "Imperfect. Sometimes stopping and starting. But always, always safe."
I reached for Marina II, pressing her against my side while staying wrapped in Ivan's arms. My thumb found its way to my mouth, and he didn't stop me—just held me while I processed what had just happened. I'd asked for what I needed. Set a boundary when something felt wrong. Resumed when I felt safe.
“You know something,” he said. “I had no idea that you were pregnant. I missed it.”
“You did?”
“Mmmhmm. A detail that passed me by.”
“Are you sad?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “My grandmother, when she died . . . I thought that I’d missed a detail and that killed her. But sometimes, surprises can be good, as well as bad.”
His smile was so warm, so full of joy, that I could feel my heart breaking with the purity of it.
He kissed me. I kissed him.
The city hummed beyond our windows, millions of lives continuing while ours had just shifted into something newer, stronger. In two months, I'd gone from prisoner to wife to mother-to-be. From voiceless to testified. From broken to healing—still in process, always in process, but moving forward.
"I love you," I whispered, the words muffled by his chest and my thumb but clear enough.
"I love you too, kotyonok," he whispered back. "Every part of you."
And in our purple room, with stars on my pajamas and stars on Marina's fins and maybe stars forming in the cluster of cells in my belly, I finally understood that love wasn't about being perfect.
It was about being safe enough to be imperfect together.