Page 46 of Marrying His Son’s Ex (Forbidden Kings #3)

ALARIC

My garden looks like something from a fairy tale.

Maria and the other staff have transformed the east terrace into an intimate dining space—white tablecloth gleaming in candlelight, flowers arranged with artistic precision, soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers. The evening air carries the scent of jasmine and roses, warm but not oppressive.

“This is beautiful,” Kasimira says as I pull out her chair.

“You deserve beautiful things.”

She’s wearing the blue dress I bought her last week, and in the soft light, her eyes look like midnight. Her body has changed in ways that make my mouth dry—fuller breasts, smoother curves, a gentle roundness to her belly that speaks of the life we created together.

“How was your day?” I ask, settling across from her.

“Productive. The Munich contracts are finalized, and I finished reviewing the customs documentation for the French shipments.”

“All work and no rest.”

“I like staying busy. Makes the time pass faster.”

She’s been restless lately, probably sensing the tension that’s been building since the security incidents started.

Tonight is about giving us both a reprieve from worry, a few hours where we can pretend we’re just ordinary people having dinner.

“Wine?” I offer, reaching for the bottle.

“Just a sip. For the toast.”

I pour myself a full glass and give her barely an inch of the vintage Bordeaux. She raises her glass, waiting for me to speak.

“To our family,” I say simply.

“To our family.”

The wine tastes like earth and sunshine.

We eat slowly, savoring each course while talking about everything except business.

She tells me about the baby books she’s been reading, about nursery designs she’s been sketching.

I share stories from my childhood, memories I haven’t thought about in decades.

“Your grandmother sounds wonderful,” she says.

“She would have adored you. And spoiled our child rotten.”

“I wish I could have met her.”

“She would have said you’re too good for me. She used to make these elaborate Sunday dinners—seven courses, the whole family required to attend. My father hated it, said it was a waste of time.”

“But you loved it.”

“I loved watching her orchestrate everything. She’d be in the kitchen for hours, humming old Italian songs while she cooked. The house would smell like garlic and fresh bread and…” I pause, remembering. “Happiness, I suppose.”

“That’s what I want for our child. Sunday dinners full of laughter instead of obligation.”

“We’ll have that. I promise.”

She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “The baby moved during your story. I think they like the sound of your voice.”

“Really?”

“Here, feel.” She guides my hand to her belly, and I feel the flutter of movement beneath my palm.

When the main course arrives—her favorite salmon with herbs from our own garden—she makes small sounds of pleasure that remind me of entirely different circumstances.

“This is perfect,” she sighs, leaning back in her chair.

“The food?”

“Everything. This moment, this evening, this life we’re building.”

The contentment in her voice makes my chest tight. How did I get so lucky? How did a man who’s spent years making enemies and destroying lives end up with someone who sees beauty in simple dinners and quiet conversations?

“Dance with me,” I say as the staff clears our plates.

I stand and offer my hand, pulling her to her feet in the space between our table and the fountain. The jazz from the speakers is soft and romantic, perfect for swaying together under the stars.

“I can’t believe this is my life,” she murmurs against my chest.

“Having second thoughts?”

“Never. Just amazed that something so good came from something so terrible.”

“Dante’s will.”

“Dante’s will brought us together. We made it into something beautiful.”

She’s right. What started as legal obligation has become the most important relationship of my life. The woman in my arms isn’t just my wife—she’s my partner, my equal, the mother of my child.

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

“I love you too.”

My hand settles on her belly, feeling the slight firmness that’s becoming more obvious each day. In five months, there will be three of us. A family built from forced beginnings but bound by genuine affection.

“What kind of father do you think you’ll be?” she asks.

“Better than I was to Dante. More present, more patient.”

“You’ll be wonderful.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you’re already protecting this baby. Already making plans, already changing your priorities. That’s what good fathers do.”

The confidence in her voice makes me want to be worthy of it. To be the man she sees when she looks at me, not the man I’ve been for most of my life.

“I’ve never felt peace like this,” I admit.

“Like what?”

“Like everything makes sense. Like all the violence and blood and terrible choices were leading to this moment.”

“Maybe they were,” she says softly.

“You think so?”

“I think some people have to walk through hell to appreciate heaven.”

We dance until the stars come out fully, holding each other while the rest of the world disappears. When she shivers slightly in the evening air, I lead her inside to our bedroom.

“That was perfect,” she says, turning in my arms.

“The evening’s not over yet.”

I kiss her slowly, tasting wine and promises and the future we’re building together. She responds with the passion that never fails to amaze me.

“I want you,” she whispers against my mouth.

“You have me. Always.”

My hands find the zipper of her dress, sliding it down with reverent care. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her in lace that makes my blood burn. Pregnancy has made her body more beautiful, more feminine, more irresistible.

“Beautiful,” I murmur, hands spanning her waist. “So beautiful carrying our child.”

“I feel huge.”

“You feel perfect.”

I lift her onto our bed, following her down onto silk sheets that smell like her perfume. The moonlight streaming through our windows paints her skin silver, and I take my time exploring every inch of her changing body.

I’ve never been a man who believed in happiness. Survival, success, power—those things made sense. But happiness felt like weakness, like something that could be taken away.

Now I understand the difference. Happiness isn’t weakness—it’s fuel and it’s what makes everything else worth fighting for.