Page 20

SANDY

The morning light slips through the curtains in soft ribbons, spreading warm golden stripes across the sheets. I lay in the hush of the mansion's guest bedroom, listening to Dimitri's breathing beside me.

For the first time in weeks, I don’t wake up with dread curled around my ribs like barbed wire. There is no panic clawing at the back of my throat. No sharp stab of fear when I reach for him and find his side empty. He is here. Flesh and bone and scars and warmth. He is finally here.

My body aches in all the right ways. The kind of ache that makes me press my thighs together, remembering the way he worshipped every inch of me last night like a man starved.

Like he had been counting the hours until he could touch me again.

There was nothing rushed or careless about the way he claimed me.

His hands had been firm but reverent. His mouth had found every place in me that ached from grief and filled it with something I thought I might never feel again.

Love. Need. Redemption.

I turn my head slowly on the pillow and look at him.

Dimitri lay on his stomach, half-buried beneath the ivory sheets, one arm tossed across the mattress as if he were reaching for me in his sleep.

The light traces the rough edge of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, and the thick line of a scar I never saw before stretching along his bicep.

His hair is a little longer than usual and slightly disheveled, making him look younger, less hardened, and almost vulnerable.

Seeing him like this twists something tender in my chest and settles low in my belly, right where our child grows.

My hand drifts instinctively to my bump.

It’s more prominent now. It’s not huge, but it's enough to make my clothes fit differently and make strangers glance twice. I can feel the changes in my body every day. The shifting balance and tighter skin, and the way my heart beats a little faster, even when I’m standing still.

For weeks, I felt like I was doing this alone.

I never said it out loud, but I lay in bed every night and imagined him missing everything.

The soft kicks. The sound of the heartbeat on the monitor.

The quiet conversations I had with our baby when the fear of losing him was too much to carry.

But now he is here. And that changes everything.

As if he senses my thoughts, Dimitri stirs. He lets out a low groan, then turns onto his side, reaching for me with a heavy arm that curls possessively around my waist. His hand finds the bare skin of my hip and stays there, warm and solid.

His voice is rough with sleep. “You're awake.”

I smile into the pillow. “So are you.”

He kisses my shoulder softly, then nudges the sheet down to place another lower, near the curve of my spine. “Couldn't sleep without you,” he murmurs.

I roll toward him and bury my fingers in his hair. “You say that like you weren't passed out ten minutes after we... collapsed.”

He smirks, lifting his head to look at me. “I wasn't passed out. I was satisfied.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “I think I've missed your cocky mouth almost as much as the rest of you.”

He chuckles, then kisses me slowly. Not with heat this time, but with something softer that feels like home. When he pulls back, his hand slides between us and rests over my bump.

“Still feels surreal,” he says quietly. “Knowing you're carrying my child.”

I cover his hand with mine. “You should have seen your face last night when you felt the baby move. You looked terrified.”

His brow furrows slightly as if the memory of that moment still grips him. “I was. I am...not of being a father. I want that. But I spent so long preparing for death. I don't know if I ever prepared for this.”

My pulse drums, but I force myself to keep my voice steady. “Then we learn together.”

His eyes lock with mine. “You really want to build something with me after all this? You still trust me to be good for you? For the baby?”

I lean in and press my forehead to his. “You're not good for me, Dimitri. You're everything for me.”

He lets out a shaky breath and draws me closer, wrapping his arms around me like he fears I might disappear if he blinks too long. We stay like this for a while, tangled together in the quiet, letting the warmth of the morning soak into our skin.

Eventually, I trace a finger along the ridges of a scar near his ribs. “We can leave it all behind, you know. The Bratva. The danger. We can run.”

His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t pull away. “I've thought about it. There's a part of me that wants nothing more than to disappear with you and the baby. Find some quiet corner of the world where no one knows my name.”

“But?” I ask softly.

“But there's still unfinished business. Morozov is out there. Petrov may have flipped, but there are still loose ends. And I can't walk away knowing he might come for you one day. Or for our child.”

I nod, even though it scares me. “Then we finish it. Together.”

His hand slides up my thigh, not to seduce but to anchor. “You really are the bravest woman I've ever met.”

“I'm not brave,” I whisper. “I'm in love.”

He kisses me deeply and intentionally. Full of everything he can’t say. When we finally pull apart, he looks down at my belly and whispers something in Russian I don’t understand. The reverence in his voice makes my eyes sting with tears.

“What did you say?” I ask.

His fingers brush my cheek. “I told our child that they are the best thing I've ever done. And that their mother is the only reason I made it home.”

A tear slides down my cheek, and he kisses it away.

The war is not over. The world outside this room still spins on a blade's edge. But here, at this moment, there is only us. And that is more than enough.

I watch his face as he gazes at my stomach, his dark eyes filled with a tenderness I rarely see.

The hardness that usually lines his features has softened in the morning light.

I savor the moment, trying to commit every detail to memory.

Dimitri Popov, feared enforcer of the Avilov Bratva, ruthless leader and dangerous man, looks at our unborn child like it is the most precious treasure in the universe.

“I never thought I would have this,” he whispers. “Men like me don't get happy endings.”

I run my fingers through his wavy hair, the strands thick and slightly coarse against my skin. “Maybe that's because you've never let yourself want one before.”

He looks up, his expression so unguarded it makes my heart clench. “There was nothing to want before you.”

The sincerity in his words threatens to undo me completely. This vulnerability is profound for a man who has spent his entire life hiding his emotions, building walls, and showing the world only his strength and brutality. I know what it costs him to let me see him this way.

“How long can you stay?” I ask, hoping the answer will be forever, but I know better.

He traces lazy circles on my hip with his thumb. “I told Lev to handle things for the day. Unless there's an emergency, I'm yours until tomorrow morning.”

A whole day. Twenty-four hours of him, all to myself. After weeks of phone calls monitored by guards and letters that could never say what we wanted to tell each other, this feels like a gift I don’t deserve.

I shift closer to him, resting my head on his chest so I can hear the steady thump of his heart. “I've missed this sound,” I murmur. “Sometimes I would dream about it and wake up crying because I couldn't hear it anymore.”

His arm tightens around me. “I dreamed of you every night. Your voice. Your scent.” His hand moves to cup my face, tilting it up so he can look into my eyes. “The feel of your skin against mine. It was torture knowing you were out here, carrying my child, facing everything alone.”

“I wasn't completely alone,” I remind him. “Talia and Aleksandr were here. So were the kids. And Lev kept me busy searching through files and paperwork.”

Something like guilt shadows his features. “I should have been here.”

I press my palm against his cheek, feeling the rough morning stubble. “You're here now. That's what matters.”

He turns his face to kiss my palm.

“You're too good for me, Sandy Davis. Always have been.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I'm exactly where I belong.”

Dimitri pulls me closer and kisses me deeply, his tongue sliding against mine with languid purpose. My body responds instantly, heat pooling between my thighs as I press myself against him. His hand slides down my back to grip my hip, and I can feel him hardening against my stomach.

“Again?” I tease when we break apart, both breathing heavily.

His eyes darken with desire. “I have weeks to make up for, malyshka .”

“Then we shouldn’t waste any time,” I breathe, sliding my hand down his chest.

He catches my wrist, his grip gentle but firm. “Not yet.” His expression grows serious. “First, I want to see.”

I know immediately what he means. Last night was frantic, passionate, and driven by weeks of separation and need. We barely removed our clothes before he was inside me, both of us desperate for that connection. There had been no time for exploration or rediscovery.

I sit up slowly, the sheet falling away from my upper body. His eyes travel over my breasts, which have grown fuller with pregnancy. Then down to my stomach, where our child grows. I watch his face, see the wonder there, and feel a surge of love so powerful it takes my breath away.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmurs, sitting up to join me.

His fingers trace the curve of my belly with reverent care. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to where our baby rests.

“ Moy rebenok ,” he whispers against my skin. My child.

Tears prick my eyes. This man, who has killed without remorse, who has built an empire on blood and fear, is treating our unborn baby with such tenderness it fills my heart.

As if sensing my emotion, he looks up. “What's wrong?”