Chapter Twelve #2
Dario’s arms tightened around her instinctively, his hand resting protectively over the gentle swell of her abdomen. "They know their duty, Sheher. Your comfort is the only priority that exists in this house."
"I am pregnant, not paralyzed," she teased gently, tracing the intricate ink on his forearm.
"You are carrying two lives," Dario countered, his voice dropping into a stubborn, gravelly register. "You will allow them to pick up the book."
Sheher laughed softly, too drained to argue, and let the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her to sleep.
Time slipped away, marked by the changing leaves in the courtyard and the steady, reassuring growth of the lives inside her.
A month later, the crisp chill of late November hung in the air as they returned to Dr. Rossi’s private suite for the crucial five-month anatomy scan. The nausea had begun to abate, returning a healthy, radiant flush to Sheher’s olive skin.
Dr. Rossi carefully guided the transducer over her prominent belly, analyzing the detailed images mapping across the high-definition screen. He measured femurs, checked spinal columns, and listened to the dual, galloping heartbeats that had become the soundtrack of Dario’s existence.
"Everything is progressing flawlessly," Dr. Rossi announced, a note of genuine triumph in his voice. He glanced at Dario, then at Sheher, his eyes crinkling behind his surgical mask. "Would you like to know the sexes of the children?"
Sheher squeezed Dario’s hand, looking up at him. "Do you want to know?"
Dario swallowed hard, his throat tight. He gave a sharp, definitive nod.
Dr. Rossi tapped the screen, pointing to two distinct frames. "You are having two boys, Don Vellucci. Two healthy, strong sons."
The air left Dario’s lungs in a rush.
Two boys. Two heirs to an empire he had built on ash and blood.
He stared at the screen, paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of his fortune.
He had been a ruthless monster. He had caused insurmountable pain.
He did not deserve this redemption. He did not deserve the brilliant, beautiful woman smiling softly on the examination table, and he certainly did not deserve the two innocent lives currently growing in the safety of her womb.
He could not believe it. Even as he looked at the undeniable proof glowing on the monitor, a, awe washed over him. The universe had taken pity on a hollowed-out king, and Dario knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was his final chance.
Later that night, the estate was quiet. Sheher was fast asleep in the center of their bed, the duvet pulled up to her shoulders, her breathing soft and even.
Dario did not sleep.
He sat in the velvet armchair by the window, solely illuminated by the silver moonlight spilling through the glass. He watched her. He watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way her dark hair spilled across the white pillows.
His heart, which had been frozen solid a decade ago, was beating with a frantic, desperate rhythm. It was a beautiful sensation, but it was accompanied by a paralyzing fear.
If he lost her, he would not survive. He knew that now.
The hollow survival he had endured after Zorah left was nothing compared to the complete, catastrophic annihilation that would follow if anything ever happened to Sheher or their sons.
His soul was no longer his own; it was tethered to the woman sleeping peacefully across the room.
The realization triggered a fanatical, consuming need to protect her.
Over the following days, Dario’s hovering escalated into an art form.
He personally vetted every meal brought to her suite.
He adjusted the ambient temperature of the rooms she occupied.
He reorganized the perimeter guard rotations to ensure that a minimum of four elite enforcers were stationed within earshot of her at all times, though carefully positioned out of her direct line of sight to avoid crowding her.
One afternoon, Sheher was sitting in the library, attempting to read a novel, while Dario paced near the doorway, eyeing a slightly uneven rug near the fireplace with deep suspicion.
"Dario," Sheher sighed, lowering her book and looking at him with immense amusement. "If you glare at that Persian rug any harder, it is going to catch fire."
Dario stopped pacing, his jaw setting stubbornly. "The edge is lifting. It’s a tripping hazard. I’m having Enzo remove it."
"It is a millimeter of wool," Sheher laughed, shifting her weight comfortably in the armchair. "Come here. Please."
Dario abandoned his war against the carpet and crossed the room, kneeling beside her chair. He rested his hands gently on her knees, his dark eyes serious.
"You are driving yourself insane," Sheher said gently, reaching out to cup his face. "I am safe, Dario. The babies are safe. You don't need to fight invisible enemies."
Dario leaned into her palm, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second as her warmth grounded the chaotic fear swirling in his chest. When he opened them, the raw, unfiltered truth bled through his formidable exterior.
"I have to fight them," Dario murmured, his voice a gravelly whisper. He turned his face slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. "Because if anything happens to you, Sheher... I am dead. You are the only thing keeping my heart beating in this chest. I cannot lose you."
Sheher’s breath caught at the desperate devotion in his voice. She looked down at the ruthless, powerful man kneeling at her feet, realizing that his fanatical protection was not about control—it was about a, all-consuming love.
"You aren't going to lose me," Sheher promised softly, leaning down to press her forehead against his. A warm endearment settled deeply into her soul. "I am right here. And I am not going anywhere."