Epilogue
. . .
Jerald
Five months later
My wedding ring catches the dim gallery light as I stand post by the main entrance, the gold band still feeling foreign on my finger some days. Never thought I'd wear one. Never thought I'd want to. But Tatianna changed the rules.
She's down in the Greek sculpture gallery now, careful steps, one hand always resting on that round belly—five months swollen with my baby. The sight of her like this hits me square in the chest every damn time. That gentle waddle she’s developed, the fuller curves, the glow in her cheeks…
I did that. Put my child inside her exactly like I promised that first night the storm locked us in. Marked her permanent. No going back.
My cock twitches against the uniform pants just watching her move. Five months pregnant and she’s more beautiful than she’s ever been—softer, riper, broadcasting to every single person who glances her way that she’s been claimed. Thoroughly. Mine.
I memorized her schedule weeks ago. Adjusted my rounds so our paths cross half a dozen times a day. Can’t stand more than a couple hours without my hands on her, without reminding her—and myself—who she belongs to.
The other guards shoot me knowing looks as I head toward the east wing storage rooms. They’ve figured out the routine by now.
The whispers about how fast it all happened—quiet little Tatianna married to the scarred security guy, knocked up before anyone even knew we were together—died off quick once her belly started showing and we came back from that two-day honeymoon wearing matching rings.
No one’s stupid enough to say shit to my face.
I pick up my pace. Need to see her. Need to touch her. Need to feel that warm, living proof of what we started in the dark and carried into every day since.
The storage room door opens soundlessly behind her. She doesn’t turn—she doesn’t have to. Her body knows me now. I feel the shift in her the second I step inside: shoulders softening, breathing changing, that telltale flush creeping up her neck.
“Working hard, Mrs. Kolcheck?” My voice comes out lower than I mean it to.
She turns, giving me that smile—the one she saves only for me—and it’s like a fist around my heart. “Just finishing up.”
Two strides and I’m on her. One hand claims the swell of her belly, possessive, protective. The other cups her cheek. “How’s Daddy’s good girl feeling today?”
She melts into my palm like she always does. “Better now. The baby’s been active today.”
A sharp kick thumps against my hand. Strong. Like his father. Pride surges through me so hard it almost hurts. “Strong,” I say, voice rough. “Like his father.”
“Or her mother,” she teases, and I can’t help the rare smile that cracks my face.
This storage room has become our place. Stolen minutes throughout the day. The only spot in this damn museum where I can remind her exactly who she belongs to without an audience.
I kiss her—starts gentle, turns hungry fast. Five months pregnant and I still want her with the same desperate edge as that first night. Still look at her like she’s the only thing worth having in this world.
“Look what Daddy did to you, little girl,” I murmur against her mouth, hand spanning wide over her swollen stomach. “So fucking perfect. Round with my baby.”
She whimpers, body going soft and pliant against mine despite the new shape of her. My dick’s rock-hard, aching. Took her this morning before work—bent over the kitchen counter—but it’s never enough.
I back her carefully to the wall, mindful of her balance, of the baby between us. Hand slips under her loose dress, finds her already soaked through her panties.
“Always ready for me,” I praise, shoving the fabric aside, sliding one thick finger into her slick heat. “Even with my baby growing inside you.”
“Only for you, Daddy,” she gasps, fingers digging into my shoulders as I add a second, stretching her slow.
“That’s right.” I growl, working my belt open one-handed. “Only Daddy gets to feel how wet this pussy gets. Only Daddy gets to fill it up.”
I lift her—easy, even with the extra weight—and she wraps her legs around me. Belly presses against my abs as I line up and push inside with one long, careful thrust. Fuck. Still so tight. Still perfect.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” I groan, holding still while she adjusts. “So perfect for me.”
Her walls flutter and clench, pulling me deeper. I start moving—slow, measured, always aware of our kid, but unable to stop the primal drive to claim what’s mine.
“Everyone who sees you knows what I did,” I rasp against her ear. “Knows I bred you full. Knows you belong to me completely.”
“Yes,” she breathes, head tipping back, throat exposed where I left a faint mark this morning. “Yours, Daddy. All yours.”
Her surrender undoes me. I keep the rhythm steady, controlled—nothing like the feral way I took her those first weeks. She’s carrying my child now. She’s precious. But she’s still mine to fill, mine to mark.
“My perfect little girl,” I praise when I feel her start to tighten, right on the edge. “Taking Daddy so well even with his baby inside you.”
That pushes her over. She comes hard, pulsing around me, gripping like she’ll never let go.
I follow right after, burying deep and spilling inside her with a groan that echoes off the shelves.
“Tatianna,” I rasp against her neck as I empty into her—not “little girl” this time.
Her real name. Always feels like the most honest thing I can give her in these moments.
I ease her down carefully, making sure her feet are steady before I let go. Help smooth her dress back into place, hands lingering on her belly where our kid grows.
“I love you,” she whispers.
The words still land like a punch. Love. Such a small word for the violent, all-consuming thing I feel for her. For both of them.
“Love you too, little girl,” I say, the words easier now than they used to be. “Both of you.”
One last kiss. I check my watch—three minutes until north entrance patrol. I burn the image of her into my brain: flushed, satisfied, round with my baby. Fuel to get me through the next few hours.
“Dinner at seven?” she asks, gathering her catalog sheets.
I nod. One final touch—palm gentle on her belly—before I force myself toward the door. “Don’t lift anything heavy. Get Davis to help if you need to move something.”
She gives me that half-exasperated, half-adoring smile. “Yes, Daddy,” she murmurs, soft, just for me.
The title hits me like a shot of adrenaline. Fresh possession surges through my veins as I make myself leave, stepping back into the public spaces of the museum.
Every visitor who passes her later will see it—the roundness, the glow, the proof. They’ll know what I did. Know she’s mine. Know I claimed her in the most permanent way a man can.
Our story didn’t follow any normal path. Didn’t wait for dates or timelines or permission. It was forged in a locked museum during a storm and hardened every day since.
And I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing.