Epilogue
Natasha
The music has stopped. The guests have gone. Outside, Monaco’s night glitters, but in here it’s just us, Ivor and me, in the master suite of his family’s estate.
I’m still in the dress. The silk clings to my skin, heavy with heat and champagne. My veil lies discarded somewhere near the door. My shoes are gone. My pulse is a drum in my throat.
I’m married.
Married to a man who should terrify me. Married into the Bratva world I came to expose. Married to the one man who saw me, wanted me, and crowned me anyway.
And now, as I slip the bodice down, baring my breasts to the cool air, I can’t stop thinking about the tiny, secret thing I haven’t told him yet. The missed period. The strange heaviness in my belly. The knowledge that his filthy promises may already be coming true.
Ivor watches me from the edge of the bed, jacket splayed open, shirt undone. His tie dangles loose around his throat, his eyes dark and hungry.
“Come here, Mrs. Antonova,” he murmurs, crooking a finger. “Show your husband how grateful you are.”
My knees go weak at the sound of it. Mrs. Antonova. His wife.
I sink between his thighs, hands sliding up his strong legs, unbuttoning him, freeing him. His cock is already hard, thick and heavy, the tip slick. I take him into my mouth slowly, reverently, savoring the way his breath shudders at the first stroke of my tongue.
He fists his hand in my hair, not to force me, but to guide me, murmuring praise in that low growl. “Good girl. Look at you, worshipping your king. That’s it. Take me deep.”
His cock fills my throat, but I moan around him, tasting salt and heat, feeling him throb against my tongue. I’ve never felt more powerful, more wanted, more alive.
When he’s slick and trembling under my mouth, he pulls me up, kisses me hard, and spins me around.
“On my lap,” he orders. “Back to me.”
I obey, straddling him backwards. The view in the mirror across the room makes my breath hitch. My veilless hair tumbling down my back, my dress pooled around my waist, his big hands spanning my hips as his cock presses at my entrance.
He pushes into me slowly, inch by inch, until I’m seated on him, impaled, both of us groaning at the stretch. His hands slide up my body to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until I’m trembling.
“Watch yourself,” he growls against my neck, eyes locked on the mirror. “Look at how perfect you are. My wife. My queen. My breeder.”
His words send a shiver through me.
He drags one hand down to splay across my belly, pressing just enough for me to feel the weight of his promise. “You’re already carrying me, aren’t you? I can feel it. I can’t wait to fuck you when you’re round with my heir. Can’t wait to taste your milk while I’m still buried inside you.”
A broken sound escapes me. Shame and hunger tangled.
“Ride me,” he orders, his hands guiding my hips. “Ride me, little dove. Milk me until you’re dripping full of me again.”
I move on him, rocking back against his cock, every thrust sending pleasure sparking up my spine.
His teeth graze my neck, his hands slide over my belly and breasts, his filthy promises wrapping around me until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be anything but the woman in the mirror: bare-faced and full of her king.
“That’s it,” he praises me. “Let me see those perfect tits bounce.” He watches, momentarily mesmerized, before his hands come back over them and squeeze.
“Fuck, Natasha, your tits are going to be even sexier when they’re leaking from the force of you bouncing on my cock.
” His head tilts back, and I know he is close.
I know my body and the thought of what it will be like when I’m heavily pregnant does to him.
Then he groans, pinching my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, and I feel the first throb of his hot release.
The fullness of his cock, the heat of his cum, and the way he plays with my nipples while I watch us in the mirror has me following him.
My orgasm is like fire under my skin. I shudder and moan, my body clenching around him, and he growls low, thrusting up into me while he spills inside me again, holding me impaled on his cock as we both come undone.
In the mirror, our eyes meet. No masks. No lies. Just a queen and her king.
Ivor
She’s boneless when I lift her from my lap, her hair damp with sweat, her body still trembling from the way I fucked her in front of the mirror. My cock is wet and heavy against my thigh, still dripping with her, but for once I don’t care about chasing another round.
Not yet.
She curls into me, small in my arms, trusting. My wife. And I swear I can already feel it, the faintest hum beneath my palm where I hold her stomach, the secret beginning of my heir.
I press my mouth to her temple as I carry her into the bathroom, where marble gleams and candles throw soft light against the walls. I set her on the edge of the tub and run the water hot, scattering bath salts into it, watching steam curl around her flushed skin.
“You’re perfect,” I murmur, brushing her damp hair back from her face. “My perfect queen. Already carrying my future inside you. Every time you move, every time you breathe, you’re making me an heir.”
She blushes, bites her lip, but doesn’t argue. She knows. I can see it in her eyes.
I kneel in front of her, my hands spreading over her thighs, reverent.
“I’ll fuck you when you’re swollen and sore.
I’ll drink your milk when your body gives it to me.
I’ll worship every stretch mark, every curve, every change, because it all means you’re mine.
Mine in the deepest way a woman can be.”
Her breath shudders, her hands trembling in my hair as I kiss her belly, slow and deliberate.
Then I reach into my jacket, pull out a leather folder, and place it in her lap. She blinks at it, confused, then looks up at me.
“What is this?”
“Your first gift as my wife,” I say, smiling. “Proof. Enough to bury a man who thought he was untouchable. Judge Serafin. He’s been using his bench to protect men who prey on boys. I told you I’d give you names. I told you I’d feed you stories sharp enough to cut kingdoms down.”
Her eyes go wide, her fingers tightening on the folder. “This is real?”
“As real as the child you’re carrying,” I murmur. “Print it. Burn him. Make the world choke on smoke. You’ll write it, Natasha, and they’ll never again laugh you out of a room. They’ll fear you.”
She gasps, tears springing to her eyes. And I kiss her again, tasting salt and triumph, tasting the future.
“You’re not just my wife,” I whisper against her mouth. “You’re my weapon.My legacy. And I’ll worship you in every way a man can, in bed, and out of it.”
I slide my hand between her thighs again, fingers stroking her still-sensitive folds, and chuckle darkly when she moans. “And when this bath cools, I’ll fuck you again. Because a queen deserves to be filled on her wedding night until she can’t walk.”