Chapter Fourteen
Aleksei
I carry Stella into the bedroom, her body light despite her advanced pregnancy.
Her skin glows silver in the moonlight streaming through the windows as I lay her on the bed. Even in sleep, worry lines crease her forehead. These nightmares haunt her almost every night now.
“You are safe, zaychik ,” I whisper, stroking her hair gently.
When I’d seen her wander out to the pool, I’d expected that this might happen, so I’d kept an eye on her.
I’ve learned to recognize the signs— the slight twitch of her fingers, the way her brow furrows, the soft whimpers that escape her lips.
These episodes have become a pattern: insomnia, followed by emotional turbulence, ending with the terrors that grip her in sleep.
I slide into bed beside her, gathering her against my chest. Her body fits perfectly against mine, her rounded belly pressing into me— a constant reminder of what’s at stake. My hand moves to her back, tracing slow circles through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.
“Shh,” I murmur against her hair. “I’m here.”
Her breathing gradually slows, synchronizing with mine. The tension in her shoulders eases. This is where I want her to stay— in my bed, in my arms, where I can protect her.
My mind drifts to Bobik, sleeping peacefully in his room. My son. My daughter growing inside Stella. My family— a concept I never thought I’d embrace. The word sits uncomfortably in my mind, loaded with both promise and danger.
Stella shifts slightly, pressing closer.
Her warmth seeps into me, and I tighten my hold.
The fierce possessiveness I feel surprises even me.
I’ve spent my life avoiding attachments, seeing them as weaknesses to be exploited.
Yet here I am, unable to let go of this woman who remembers nothing of our complicated past.
It’s for the best, mudak.
Her memory loss is both blessing and curse— it shields her from truths that would destroy what we’re building, but leaves her vulnerable, dependent.
Her breathing settles as she nuzzles up against me. I press my lips to her hair, inhaling her scent. There’s something sweet and helpless about her that makes me want to cradle her close and keep her safe.
“Ya pozabochus’ o tebe, ” I whisper. “I’ll always take care of you.”
She makes a small sound, murmuring something against my chest that I can’t make out.
I put a fingertip beneath her chin and tilt her head back so I can look into her face.
“There is nothing to worry about, krasivaya ,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“Aleksei,” she whispers, her voice small and broken. “It was him. I was there. He’s dead.” She makes a choking sound. “He’s dead.”
I stare at her silently, not sure how to respond to this. There’s no sense in denying what she says because it’s true. But anything I say to comfort her might only lead to more questions I can’t answer.
Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to hers. It’s a gentle kiss, almost chaste, but it sparks something between us— that same electric current that’s been there since the beginning. Her lips part on a sigh, and I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair to cradle the back of her head.
She responds immediately, her arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer. I can taste the salt of her tears, feel the warmth of her breath against my face. When I finally break the kiss, her eyes remain closed, her lips slightly parted.
“No more bad dreams,” I murmur against her mouth. “I’ll help you forget them.”
Her eyes open, searching mine. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods once, her fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt.
I stand, pulling her with me, and begin to undress her with deliberate slowness. The oversized shirt she wears slides easily over her head, leaving her in just her nightdress. My breath catches at the sight of her— full breasts, the curve of her belly, the flush spreading across her skin.
“ Ty krasivyy, ” I tell her, meaning it completely. She’s never been more beautiful to me than she is like this, with my child in her belly and desire in her eyes.
“I need you,” she murmurs. She reaches for me then, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt with surprising dexterity. I let her undress me, watching her face as she reveals more of my scarred, tattooed skin. There’s no disgust in her expression, only appreciation and growing need.
When we’re both naked, I guide her back onto the bed, arranging pillows to support her back and belly. Her hair fans out across my pillows like spilled ink, her skin pale against the dark sheets.
I take my time exploring her body, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and writhe beneath my touch.
The moonlight touches her skin, highlighting the flush that spreads across her breasts as my fingers trail between them.
Her nipples have darkened during pregnancy, more sensitive now— when I brush my thumb across one, she bites her lip to stifle a moan.
“Don’t silence yourself,” I command softly. “I want to hear what I do to you, zaychik .”
I lower my mouth to her breast, circling her nipple with my tongue before drawing it between my lips.
The sound she makes— half gasp, half sob— sends blood rushing to my cock, already hard against her thigh.
Her body is different now, fuller, softer in some places, tighter in others.
I explore these changes with my hands, memorizing this new landscape of the woman carrying my daughter.
“Yessss,” she gasps as my fingers drift down over her stomach, caressing the taut skin there before sliding lower, through the trimmed curls between her thighs.
She’s already wet, her slick heat coating my fingers as I part her folds.
I watch her face as I circle her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her hips buck against my hand.
“ Blyad , you’re soaked for me,” I murmur, voice rough with need. “So fucking ready.”
I slide one finger inside her, then another, feeling her inner walls clench around me. Her head falls back, throat exposed as she pants my name. The sight of her— sprawled across my bed, legs spread for me, taking my fingers so greedily— makes me throb with want.
“Aleksei,” she breathes, “more. Please.”
I’m careful with her, mindful of her condition, but she’s having none of it.
Her nails rake down my back, urging me closer, deeper.
Blood rises under her scratches— little marks of possession that make me growl with satisfaction.
She’s marking me as I’ve marked her, claiming ownership in her own way.
“I need to feel you,” she whispers against my ear, her breath hot and desperate. “All of you.”
The last of my restraint shatters at her words. Something fierce awakens in me— the need to possess, to claim. I grip her hips, positioning myself at her entrance, the head of my cock sliding through her wetness.
“Tell me you’re mine,” I demand, voice barely recognizable even to myself.
Her eyes fly open, locking with mine. “I’m yours,” she whispers. “Only yours.”
I claim her mouth in a bruising kiss as I enter her in one smooth thrust. The tight, wet heat of her cunt nearly undoes me— it’s like coming home, like claiming territory that belongs exclusively to me.
She cries out, her body arching beneath mine, taking me deeper.
Her walls pulse around me, adjusting to my size, drawing me in further.
“ Fuck ,” I groan against her neck. “So tight. So perfect.”
I withdraw almost completely before driving back in.
Each thrust pulls a moan from her lips, each withdrawal a whimper.
We find our rhythm quickly, bodies moving together with the familiarity of longtime lovers despite the strangeness of her memory loss.
Some things, it seems, go deeper than memory— some connections are written in the body itself.
I hook one of her legs higher over my hip, changing the angle to hit just the right spot inside her. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, her hands gripping the sheets beside her head. I want to wreck her, to make her forget every man who came before me.
“Mine,” I grunt, punctuating the word with a particularly deep thrust. “Say it again.”
“Yours,” she gasps, her inner muscles clenching around me. “God, Aleksei— I’m yours.”
Her eyes lock with mine as we move, and something passes between us— something deeper than physical pleasure, more complex than desire. Her face is flushed, her lips parted, her breathing ragged.
“Aleksei,” she gasps, her voice breaking on my name. “Who are you? To me? Why do I feel this way?”
The questions cut through me, sharper than any blade. In this moment, joined as intimately as two people can be, she still doesn’t know me. Doesn’t remember us .
“I’m yours,” I tell her, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. “And you’re mine. That’s all that matters.”
Her eyes widen, something like recognition flickering in their depths. “Why do I feel like I love you?” she whispers, her voice trembling. “How can I love someone I don’t remember?”
The word— love — hits me. No one has said that to me since my mother disappeared. Not even Olga, Bobik’s mother. Certainly not Sofia, with her cold calculation. Only this woman, this impossible woman who should hate me but doesn’t remember why.
“ Ty moya dusha ,” I growl against her throat, unable to say the words in English. You are my soul. “Mine.”
She stiffens as I say it, but it’s not in objection. I can feel her muscles spasming around my shaft as her pleasure begins to peak. Her climax takes her suddenly, her body tightening around mine, pulling me over the edge with her.
“Oh God! Oh, God, Aleksei, I’m coming!” she pants out the words. “Yes! fuck, yes!”
“Stella,” I groan low in my throat and bury my face in her neck, my release shuddering through me with an intensity that leaves me breathless. For a moment, everything else falls away— the Bratva, the blood on my hands, the secrets between us. There’s only this, only her.
As my cock finally stops twitching, I sink down carefully, withdrawing from her warm body and pulling her against my side.
We’re both breathing heavily, chests rising and falling rapidly.
The aftershocks of pleasure still ripple through me as I wrap my arm around her, feeling her skin slick with sweat against mine.
I brush my lips over her forehead, tasting the salt there, inhaling the scent of sex and sweet woman that surrounds her.
My heartbeat gradually eases, but the intensity of what just happened between us remains, settling into something deeper that I don’t quite understand.
“ Bozhe moy ,” I breathe out. It amazes me that even after all these months, the woman can still affect me this way.
I hold her close, cupping her belly. Her breathing begins to slow, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I brush damp strands of hair from her forehead, studying her face in the dim light.
“You’re going to sleep here with me tonight,” I tell her, though she’s already half-asleep and probably doesn’t hear me.
She murmurs something unintelligible, nestling closer to me.
I pull the covers over us both, my arm tightening around her.
Her skin is soft and smooth against mine, her body fitting perfectly against my larger frame.
I breathe in the scent of her hair; it still smells of flowers, even though it’s damp with sweat.
There’s something satisfying about holding her this way, knowing she’s safe with me, completely mine. It’s a possessiveness I’ve never felt before her, and it both unsettles and pleases me.
In sleep, her face loses that wariness she sometimes carries around me— now she looks peaceful, trusting. I allow myself this quiet moment of contentment before the world inevitably intrudes again.
Tomorrow, everything might change. Her memories might return, unleashing a tide I’m powerless to stop. But tonight, she’s here. In my bed. In my arms.
And for now, that’s enough.