Chapter 43
ASTRID
The wind is softer this high up.
I stand barefoot on Yuri’s balcony, one hand resting lightly on the glass railing, the other curved instinctively over the swell of my stomach. The city stretches out below me, glittering and alive, quiet in this hour between night and morning.
It feels safe. Finally.
God, I hope it’s really over.
Everything that happened keeps looping in my mind like a fever dream. The blood, the shouting, the cold concrete stained with blood.
But we survived.
The thought is so enormous I can barely hold it. I close my eyes for a moment and press my palm more firmly against my belly.
“You hear that, kiddos?” I whisper. “We made it. We’re still here.”
A breeze curls around me, cool and calming. Far below, Chicago hums with its usual noise. But up here, it might as well be another world. I let the silence stretch. I need it. After everything, I need this one quiet minute to just be.
As I stand, I feel a flutter. Then another. I gasp softly as the babies kick. One-two, one-two, like little synchronized swimmers turning in time. My eyes sting immediately.
They’re telling me it’s going to be okay.
I laugh a little, breathless. “Alright, alright,” I murmur. “I get the message.”
The sound of my voice surprises me. It feels warm again. Peaceful.
I wipe my cheeks and make a mental note to call my foster parents.
It’s been too long. I know they’re worried, even if they never say so.
I can already hear my foster dad in my head—you don’t have to tell us everything, kiddo, just let us know you’re breathing.
I promise myself I’ll call them tonight.
When the elevator chimes, my body tenses before I can stop it.
I turn, one foot already back inside the penthouse.
The doors begin to open, and for half a breath, I’m frozen.
Irrational panic flares up. What if it’s Tatiana, or some loyalist of De la Rosa’s, or someone I didn’t even think to fear?
What if this feeling of safety is nothing more than an illusion, and I’ve let myself relax too soon?
Yuri steps out of the open elevator doors, and the second I see him, the tension in my shoulders drains away like water. He’s carrying something in his hand, looks like takeout, and the look on his face when his eyes meet mine is a mix of surprise along with something quieter, deeper.
He smiles. Not big, not dramatic. Just enough to make my heart ache.
And just like that, I know I’m safe.
We’re safe.
At last.
I meet him halfway across the living room, the marble floors cool and grounding beneath my feet.
Yuri's smile deepens as I approach, the devastating smirk that always manages to undo me just a little. His eyes flick down, taking in the oversized T-shirt I’ve stolen from his drawer, the bare legs, the way my hand rests on my stomach.
I don’t see hunger in his gaze—I see reverence.
With a magician’s flourish, he pulls a large bouquet from behind his back.
I smile at him. “They’re gorgeous.”
They really are beautiful—cream-colored roses, dusky blue thistle, and pale eucalyptus wrapped in parchment and velvet string.
“I thought you’d earned something nice,” he says. “And flowers are just the beginning.”
I raise a brow, amused. “You do know I’m not the kind of woman who needs presents to feel loved, right?”
His grin turns wolfish. “Too bad.”
I laugh, then lean in and kiss him, fingers curling lightly into the collar of his jacket. It’s not a frantic kiss, just warmth and connection. The kind of bond shared after surviving hell.
When I pull back, I ask the question that’s been lingering at the edges of my mind. “So… how is everything?”
The softness fades slightly from his face. A calculating gleam slides into his eyes—the part of Yuri that’s always measuring threats, strategizing, and balancing power. “Spalding’s going sing like a bird,” he says. “And if he’s lucky, he might get isolation for the information, instead of gen pop.”
I nod. “And Christian?”
Yuri’s expression darkens, calm but absolute. “Let’s just say he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars, but it won’t be a long life.”
I swallow. There’s no sadness in me for De la Rosa. That chapter’s over.
Yuri sees something in my face—maybe exhaustion or the lingering fear—and shakes his head. “Enough of that. It’s over. Now we get to build the life we want.”
We settle onto the plush sofa. I curl into his side as he pulls me close, his hand resting over mine on my belly. The room smells like leather, flowers, and him.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, fiercely. “Like mad. I should’ve said it sooner, should’ve shouted it. But I didn’t. And that nearly cost me everything.”
My breath catches.
“As long as I’m breathing, Astrid,” he continues, brushing his lips against my hair, “you’ll never have to wonder if you’re loved. You’ll never go without. You’ll never feel alone.”
I close my eyes. His words settle over me like a blanket. Steady and unshakable.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I love you too,” I whisper. “So much. And I can’t wait to see you become a father.”
He turns, kissing me again, deeper this time.
The flowers sit in a vase, full and lush on the table, but Yuri’s eyes draw mine, not the roses.
Him. Always him.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say.
He laces our fingers together. “You almost died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“I almost lost you.”
“But you didn’t.” I reach for his jaw, thumb brushing the dark stubble that’s grown in rough and fast. “We survived.”
Something in him softens. Or maybe unravels.
His kiss is slow at first, like he’s memorizing me all over again. His mouth moves against mine with aching sweetness, and my whole body leans into it, into him, like I’ve been waiting for this moment without knowing it.
When his hand slides up under my shirt and brushes the curve of my side, I shiver. We break apart for a breath. His lips are swollen, his eyes wide.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He sees it in my eyes. He stands and takes my hand, leading me to the bedroom, which is filled with golden light spilling in through the city windows. Everything feels soft. Quiet. Safe.
He lifts the shirt over my head, fingers slow but sure. We’re in no rush. He kisses my shoulder and unclasps my bra, not breaking eye contact. When it falls, his gaze drops to my breasts. He lingers there for a moment, then bends to kiss the top of my belly.
“I still can’t believe this,” he murmurs against my skin. “Our future.”
My throat tightens. “They’re kicking,” I say. “They always do when they hear your voice.”
He lays his hand gently on my stomach. Waits. And when they do it again, his breath catches. “I felt it.”
I nod, tears forming. “They know you.”
He undresses slowly. Every inch of him is strength and heat. When he lifts me onto the bed, it’s effortless. When he lays beside me, naked and real and utterly mine, I forget everything else.
He trails kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, then lower. When he takes one nipple into his mouth, I gasp. My hands twist in his hair as pleasure spirals out from the heat of his tongue, the scrape of his teeth.
“I missed this,” he whispers.
His fingers slide between my legs and I arch into him. I’m already slick, already begging without words. He knows every part of my body, and he maps it now like he’s coming home. He murmurs things in Russian, things I don’t understand but feel in my bones.
When he finally pushes inside, I cry out.
He groans, head bowed, his breath ghosting across my throat.
His hands are braced on either side of me, muscles taut, arms trembling slightly with the effort of restraint.
His dark hair hangs forward, damp at the edges, and his jaw clenches as he slides deeper, the corded strength of his body coiled above mine.
“You feel like heaven,” he says, voice hoarse.
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, pulling him deeper until I can feel the length of him buried inside me—thick, pulsing, perfect.
“Then don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Each thrust is steady and unhurried, a slow claiming. His hips roll into mine, powerful and controlled, his body moving with a rhythm that’s both primal and achingly tender.
I tilt my head back and watch him through heavy-lidded eyes—watch the way his mouth parts with each thrust, the way his brow furrows in concentration, the way his skin glows golden in the low light, kissed by sweat and need.
He’s beautiful. His abs tighten with each stroke, his chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm. I feel him everywhere—his weight above me, his breath mingling with mine, the delicious drag of his cock inside me, each movement slick and perfect, sending heat blooming through my belly.
His hands find mine again, fingers twining tight, anchoring me as he kisses me—deep and searching, messy with want. He groans into my mouth when I arch to meet him, our bodies moving together as if they’ve always known how.
The pace builds slowly, a tide gathering strength, our sweat-slicked skin sliding together as we find the rhythm of each other all over again. My breath hitches with every thrust, every sweet grind of his hips against mine, the pressure building to a fever pitch.
“I love you,” he gasps, voice breaking. “God, Astrid. I love you.”
My climax hits like a wave crashing against the shore. Full. Shattering. I cry out his name and feel him follow, hips stuttering, breath breaking against my shoulder.
We lay together, tangled and trembling. His forehead presses to mine, sweat cooling on our skin. He shifts only enough to kiss the trail of tears down my cheek.
“We made it,” I whisper.
His hand slides protectively over my belly. “Now we build.”
We fall asleep wrapped in each other, heartbeat to heartbeat.