Page 25 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)
Sunlight caught the ring on her left hand as she pulled her hair up into a messy bun, the pink diamond sending tiny reflections dancing across the wall. The sight of it -- that physical proof of our new reality -- sent a surge of possessive satisfaction through me.
She felt my gaze and looked up, catching me watching her. A faint blush colored her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. “What?”
“Just enjoying the view,” I said, allowing a smile to tug at my lips. “You in my shirt. Like something out of a dream.”
Her blush deepened, but pleasure glinted in her eyes. “Not a dream anymore.”
“No,” I agreed, voice dropping lower. “Not anymore.”
When she came back over to the bed, I shifted to make room for her. Instead of climbing back into bed, she stood beside it, staring down at me.
“We have the whole house to ourselves,” she said, her voice taking on a husky quality I was quickly becoming addicted to. “All day.”
“That we do.” I reached for her, fingers hooking into the hem of my shirt where it hung at her thighs. “Any ideas how to pass the time?”
She caught my hand, but instead of pulling away, she used it to guide me to the bare skin beneath the shirt. “One or two,” she admitted, the playfulness in her tone mixing with something darker, more urgent.
I tugged gently, pulling her back onto the bed and into my arms in one fluid motion.
She came willingly, settling across my lap, her smaller frame fitting against mine like she’d been made for me.
My hands found her waist, slid beneath the shirt to trace the curve of her spine, marveling at the softness of her skin beneath my callused fingers.
“God, you’re beautiful,” I murmured against her neck, tracing a path of kisses from her shoulder to her jaw. “Every inch of you.”
She shivered under my touch, her head falling back to give me better access.
Her fingers threaded through my hair, guiding me where she wanted me, newfound confidence in her movements that thrilled me to my core.
Last night had been urgent, passionate -- the breaking of a dam after not only years of restraint but also being careful of her injuries the past few weeks.
This morning was different, slower, more deliberate.
We had time now. All the time in the world.
I pulled back enough to help her remove the shirt, leaving her gloriously naked in the morning light.
The contrast between us was stark -- her pale, delicate frame against my larger, heavily tattooed body.
Ink crawled up my arms, across my chest, telling the story of my life in the club.
Her skin was unmarked save for the yellowing bruises from her ordeal and the silvery scars on her wrists from years ago -- reminders of her own journey, her own survival.
I lowered her carefully onto the mattress, hovering above her, supporting my weight on my forearms. My thumb traced the outline of the bandage still wrapped around her ribs, a physical reminder of how close I’d come to losing her.
Her hands sliding up my arms to my shoulders, pulling me down to her.
When our lips met, it was like coming home -- familiar yet still new enough to send electricity racing through my veins.
I took my time exploring her body, learning what made her gasp, what made her arch against me, what made her whisper my name like a prayer.
Even though she’d healed, I still worried I might hurt her. My touch became featherlight, gentler than I’d ever been with anyone, treating her like the precious thing she was.
“Okay?” I asked, watching her face carefully.
“Perfect,” she breathed, the tension leaving her body as I continued my careful exploration.
When I slid inside her, it was with a slowness that bordered on reverence.
I whispered her name against her skin, promises spilling from my lips that I’d never thought I’d say to anyone.
Forever. Always. Mine. She answered with words in Russian -- endearments I didn’t need to translate to understand, their meaning clear in the way her body moved with mine, the trust in her eyes as they held my gaze.
“I love you,” I told her as we moved together, the words so long contained now flowing freely. “I love you, Yulia.”
“I love you, Kye.”
She came apart in my arms with a soft cry, her body tightening around mine, drawing me over the edge with her.
I buried my face in her neck, overwhelmed by the intensity of it -- not just the physical release, but the emotional one.
Years of wanting, of holding back, of telling myself the arrangement was enough -- all of it washed away in this moment of perfect connection.
Afterward, we lay tangled together, her head on my chest, my arm curved protectively around her shoulders.
“We should probably get up eventually,” Yulia murmured against my skin, though she made no move to leave the warm nest of our bed.
I tightened my hold on her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Eventually,” I agreed. “But not yet.”
Not yet. We had time now. All the time in the world.
We lay in comfortable silence, my fingers tracing idle patterns on Yulia’s bare skin.
The curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the smooth expanse of her stomach.
Her body was a map I was learning by heart, every scar and freckle a landmark to memorize.
The morning had stretched into afternoon, but neither of us seemed inclined to leave our sanctuary.
The world outside, with its demands and dangers, could wait a little longer.
Yulia’s breathing had slowed to a peaceful rhythm, her body relaxed against mine.
The sunlight had shifted, painting new patterns across the rumpled sheets.
In these quiet moments, my mind wandered to possibilities I’d never allowed myself to consider before -- a future not just of survival, but of building something new together.
“Have you ever thought about having a baby?” The question slipped out before I’d fully formed it in my mind, born from the contentment spreading through me like warm honey.
The change in Yulia was immediate and visceral.
Her body, seconds ago soft and pliant against mine, went rigid.
She pulled away slightly, not enough to break contact but enough to create distance between us.
When I looked down at her face, the color had drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale as bone china.
Her eyes, which had been warm and languid with afterglow, now darted away from mine, fixing on some point across the room.
“Yulia?” I pushed up on one elbow, concern threading through me at her reaction. “What is it?”
She sat up fully then, drawing the sheet around her like armor, her slender fingers clutching the fabric so tightly her knuckles turned white. Several long seconds passed, the silence between us growing heavier with each tick of the bedside clock.
“I can’t,” she finally said, the words barely audible. “I can’t have children.”
The simple statement hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I couldn’t immediately process. I sat up beside her, careful not to touch her yet, sensing her need for space.
“Can’t?” I repeated, trying to understand.
Her hands trembled visibly now, and her breathing had grown shallow, almost panting. She still wouldn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on her own hands as they twisted the sheet into knots.
“Before they sent me to the boarding school,” she began, each word seemingly dragged from somewhere deep and painful, “the Bratva… they made sure I would never…” She swallowed hard, her throat working against emotions that threatened to overwhelm her.
“They were doing their best to wipe out my family’s bloodline.
If my sister hadn’t managed to get away, they’d have done the same to her. ”
The meaning of her words hit me like a physical blow to the chest, momentarily robbing me of breath.
Horror, then rage, then a grief so profound it had no name surged through me in rapid succession.
Rage won out first -- white-hot and vicious, directed at people I’d never met but suddenly wanted to destroy with my bare hands.
Men who’d taken a young girl -- a child -- and violated her in the most fundamental way possible.
“Jesus Christ, Yulia.” My voice came out rougher than intended, and I saw her flinch slightly at the intensity. I took a deliberate breath, tamping down the fury that would only make this harder for her. “Who --”
“It doesn’t matter who,” she interrupted, still not looking at me. “It was a long time ago. Before you found me.”
The rage subsided, replaced by an ache that seemed to emanate from my very bones.
This explained so much -- her nightmares in those early years, the way she’d flinched at sudden movements.
I’d attributed it all to the trauma at the boarding school, never suspecting there had been earlier, deeper wounds.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly, no accusation in the question, just a need to understand.
“It wasn’t relevant to our arrangement,” she answered, a hint of the old formality creeping back into her voice -- a defense mechanism I recognized. “And later… I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
Her eyes finally met mine, swimming with unshed tears. “That it would change how you saw me. That it would matter once we…” She gestured vaguely between us, indicating our new relationship.
The protective instinct that had defined my feelings for her from the beginning surged forward, overwhelming everything else.
I reached for her slowly, telegraphing my movements, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
When she didn’t, I gathered her gently into my arms, sheet and all, cradling her against my chest.
“Nothing changes how I see you,” I told her, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “Nothing.”
Her body remained tense within my embrace. “But what about children? You’ve been such a good father to Clover. Don’t you want more kids? Your own biological children?”
The question made me pause, forcing me to examine feelings I hadn’t fully explored.
I’d never specifically thought about having more children -- my focus had always been on Clover, on the club, on keeping Yulia safe.
But the idea that the choice had been violently taken from her, from us, before we’d even met… that cut deeper than I’d expected.
“I have everything I need,” I finally said, the words simple but absolutely true. “You and Clover -- you’re my family. That’s all that matters to me.”
She pulled back enough to search my face, looking for any sign of insincerity or disappointment. “I feel like I’ve failed you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What if it causes problems later? What if you change your mind?”
I cupped her face between my hands, forcing her to hold my gaze. “Listen to me. You haven’t failed anyone. You survived. You built a life. You’ve been an amazing mother to Clover.” I brushed away a tear that had escaped to track down her cheek. “And I’m not going to change my mind about you. Ever.”
The certainty in my voice seemed to reach her, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against mine, her eyes closing briefly.
“We’ll face whatever comes together,” I promised her, my thumbs stroking gently along her cheekbones. “Just like we always have.”
She nodded slightly, not fully convinced perhaps, but willing to try.
I eased us both back down onto the mattress, keeping her wrapped securely in my arms, her head tucked beneath my chin.
We lay like that for a long time, not speaking, just breathing together.
Her body gradually relaxed against mine again, though I could feel her mind still working, processing what this revelation meant for us.
My own thoughts churned beneath the surface calm.
There was grief there, unexpected but real -- not for myself, but for her, for what had been taken from her without consent or warning.
For the choices stolen before she was old enough to understand what they meant.
And yes, perhaps a small mourning for possibilities that would never be.
But alongside that grief was a bone-deep certainty that she was enough. She had always been enough.
The afternoon sun continued its slow journey across our bed, indifferent to the secrets we’d shared, the wounds we’d exposed.
And through it all, we held each other -- bodies intertwined, hearts beating in sync -- processing in silence what it meant to build a future on foundations that had been altered before we’d ever met.