Page 33 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

I can’t sleep.

Kasimira lies curled against my side, her breathing deep and even, her face peaceful in the moonlight streaming through our windows. Her injured shoulder is carefully positioned away from me, but her good arm rests across my chest like she’s claiming territory even in sleep.

Three hours ago, she made me forget every rule I’ve lived by for forty years. Made me forget that loving someone in my world is the most dangerous thing you can do. Made me forget that the woman sleeping beside me was once my dead son’s fiancée.

Now, in the quiet darkness, reality crashes back with the force of a freight train.

I’m in love with her.

Not just attracted, not just protective, not just grateful for her partnership. I’m completely, irrevocably, catastrophically in love with Kasimira Vale-Moretti.

The realization sits in my chest like a lead weight, pressing against my lungs until breathing becomes a conscious effort. When did it happen? When did protecting her stop being duty and start being devotion?

Maybe it was watching her handle those Russian negotiations with the grace of someone born to this life. Maybe it was her presence in my office that first night, causing trouble—anything to upset me. Perhaps it was the moment she threw herself between me and a bullet without hesitation.

Or maybe it was earlier than that. Maybe it was all those months ago, in a hotel room where she showed me what tenderness felt like.

Christ.

I ease myself out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. She needs rest, and I need air that doesn’t smell like her perfume, space where I can think clearly.

My study is dark except for the city lights filtering through the windows. I pour myself a glass of whiskey and settle into the leather chair that’s been my throne for decades. From here, I’ve planned wars and ordered executions.

Now I’m using it to contemplate how thoroughly a twenty-two-year-old woman has dismantled every defense I’ve spent years constructing.

The worst part isn’t the vulnerability. I’ve learned to live with fear for her safety, with the constant calculation of threats and protective measures. The worst part is the guilt.

She was Dante’s first. For two years, she lived in his house, shared his bed, and carried his name. She was supposed to marry my son, bear his children, and build a life with the heir to my empire.

Instead, she’s here. In my bed, in my heart, in my future plans that used to include dying alone and unlamented.

What kind of man falls in love with his dead son’s woman?

The answer comes immediately, brutal in its honesty: a man who never really knew his son at all.

Because the more I learn about what Dante did to her, the more I understand that she was never really his. She was his victim, his prisoner, his entertainment. He kept her like a beautiful bird in a gilded cage, something to possess and control and eventually destroy.

I saved her from that cage. But somewhere along the way, I forgot she was supposed to fly away.

My phone buzzes with a text from Benedetto: Boris Petrov confirmed in the city. Three hotels, rotating locations every six hours.

Business. The one thing that still makes sense when everything else has turned upside down.

I type back: Meeting tomorrow. Need updated security protocols.

Already arranged. But boss…

I wait for him to finish the thought.

The men are asking questions. About her. About your priorities.

My jaw clenches. I know what they’re asking. When did Alaric Moretti start making decisions based on emotion instead of strategy? When did a woman become more important than the organization?

What kind of questions?

Whether you’re still capable of making hard choices. Whether you’d sacrifice business interests to keep her safe.

The answer should be easy. The family comes first. The business comes first. Individual lives, even precious ones, can’t be allowed to compromise the empire that provides for hundreds of people.

But as I sit here in the dark, whiskey burning my throat, I know the truth. If protecting Kasimira meant burning down everything I’ve built, I’d strike the match myself.

That makes me weak. Compromised. Dangerous to everyone who depends on me for survival.

Tell them their concerns are noted, I type. And remind them who signs their paychecks.

Yes sir.

I set the phone aside and finish my drink, staring out at the lights of a city that used to feel like mine. Now it feels like a hunting ground where my enemies circle closer every day, looking for weakness they can exploit.

They won’t have to look long.

Footsteps in the hallway interrupt my brooding. Kasimira appears in the doorway, wearing one of my shirts and a concerned expression.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“Didn’t want to wake you.”

She crosses to the bar and pours herself a small glass of wine, moving carefully to avoid jarring her shoulder. “Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I study her face in the dim light. Ten days ago, she took a bullet meant for me. Three hours ago, she gave herself to me with a trust that humbles me. She deserves honesty, even if the truth might drive her away.

“I’m terrified,” I admit.

“Of what?”

“Of you. Of this. Of what you’ve done to me.”

She settles into the chair across from mine, tucking her legs beneath her. “What have I done to you?”

“Made me fall in love with you.”

The words come out raw, unfiltered. I expect her to recoil.

Instead, she smiles. “Is that so terrible?”

“In my world? Yes. Love is a weakness. Love is vulnerability that gets exploited by enemies. Love is how good men make fatal mistakes.”

“Or love is how good men become better men.”

“You don’t understand. The things I’ve done, the choices I’ve made…I’m not a good man, Kasimira. I’m a killer who happens to follow certain rules.”

“And yet you saved me. Protected those women from Dante’s files. Built a business empire that provides for hundreds of families.”

“That doesn’t erase twenty-four years of blood.”

“No. But it doesn’t erase twenty-four years of choices either. Good and bad, all mixed together.” She leans forward, wine glass cradled in her hands. “You think loving me makes you weak?”

“I know it does.”

“Funny. Because watching you care for me these past ten days, seeing you put my needs before business obligations…that looked like strength to me.”

“My men think I’m compromised.”

“Are you?”

The question cuts to the heart of everything. Am I still capable of making ruthless decisions? Of sacrificing individual lives for the greater good? Of being the cold, calculating leader this organization needs?

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.

“Then maybe it’s time to find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Boris Petrov. He’s escalating because he thinks he can. Because he believes you’re distracted, weakened by caring about me.” She sets down her wine glass. “Prove him wrong.”

“How?”

“By being exactly who you’ve always been, just with something worth protecting now.”

The simplicity of it almost makes me laugh. She’s right, of course. The solution isn’t to stop loving her. It’s to let that love make me more dangerous, not less.

“You realize what you’re suggesting? That I use our relationship as motivation to be more ruthless?”

“I’m suggesting you stop seeing love as weakness and start seeing it as fuel.”

“And if that fuel burns everything down?”

“Then we rebuild from the ashes.”

I stare at her across the space between our chairs, this woman who should have been my daughter-in-law and instead became my salvation. Her shoulder is still bandaged, her arm still in a sling, but she sits there like a queen planning war.

“The men will never accept you if they think you make me weak.”

She smiles. “Then show them I make you strong.”

“How?”

“By letting me be your partner in everything. Not just the bedroom, not just business meetings, but the hard decisions. The dangerous ones. Show them that loving me doesn’t compromise your judgment—it sharpens it.”

“That’s asking you to get blood on your hands.”

“I already have blood on my hands. Dante’s victims, the women we’re trying to save…their blood is on all our hands until we fix this.”

She’s right. She’s been right about so many things since the day she walked into my world and turned it upside down.

“There’s something else,” I say quietly. “About us. About what we are to each other.”

“What?”

“You were supposed to be his wife. You were supposed to give him children, build a life with the heir to this empire.”

“But I didn’t. I’m here instead.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you were his first.”

“No,” she agrees. “It doesn’t. But it also doesn’t change the fact that he never really had me. Not the parts that matter.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because when he touched me, I felt like property. When you touch me, I feel like a person.” She stands and crosses to my chair, settling carefully on my lap. “Because with him, I was surviving. With you, I’m living.”

I wrap my arms around her, careful of her injured shoulder, and breathe in the scent of her hair.

“I love you,” I tell her, the words easier the second time.

“I love you too.”