Page 109 of Under His Control

“For us and the baby,” I say, tapping my bump with one finger.

“And the next one,” he says, hand drifting to rest over mine. “And the one after that, if I get my way.”

I snort. “Slow down, Super Dad. Let’s see if you survive diaper duty for the first one.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek. “I’ll survive anything,solnishka. As long as I have you.”

The way he says that. The way he looks at me like I’m his home, his church, his whole damn world. It never gets old.

I slide my hand up his chest. “Then maybe it’s time you earned me all over again.”

He straightens just a little, eyes darkening, focus snapping to full attention.

I stand and take his hand, leading him down the hall, barefoot and very aware that the fabric of my leggings is clinging to places I’d really like his hands to visit.

He closes the bedroom door behind us.

It’s quiet. Soft. Intimate.

Safe.

I turn to face him, heart hammering. I’m big now—eight months along, with hips and boobs and a belly that feels enormous yet also powerful and strange.

He looks at me like I’m a work of art.

Like I’m magic.

Like I’m still the girl who walked into his lobby thinking she’d out-stubborn him.

He steps closer, fingers skimming my waist. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

“Even like this?” I ask, gesturing at my round belly. “Even when I grunt every time I stand up?”

“Especially like this. Especially when you grunt.”

I run my fingers down his chest and whisper, “I want this forever.”

“You’ve got it,” he says, voice low and certain. “Forever started the moment you said my name.”

He kisses my belly, then my lips.

And I know—without a single doubt—that this life we’re building is exactly where I’m meant to be.

EPILOGUE II

ANATOLY

Two and a half years later…

The Strip is alive just a few blocks away—buzzing neon signs, drunken laughter, the metallic rhythm of slot machines chewing quarters like candy. Vegas doesn’t sleep. It doesn’t even nap, not even during the middle of a beautiful spring day.

But here, tucked behind a line of cottonwood trees near the edge of the city, the chaos fades into something that almost feels like peace.

I lean on the wooden fence surrounding the park, watching my wife push our daughter on the swing.

And God help me, I still can’t believe either of them are mine.

Taylor laughs—head back, cheeks flushed, the wind lifting her curls into a halo of sunlight. She’s wearing one of my old shirts knotted over jean shorts, and even now, after everything, she still makes me breathless.