Chapter 46
forty-six
Liana
Waking up feels… different.
It’s the first thing I notice before I even open my eyes, before I even fully come back into myself, before the room or the light or anything external has a chance to settle around me.
My body feels, good.
Not perfect. Not untouched. There’s still soreness low in my side where the wound is healing, still a quiet stiffness if I shift too quickly, still the lingering heaviness of everything my body has been through.
But underneath that, there’s something else.
A deep, slow warmth that settles into my bones, that lingers in my muscles, that makes me aware of myself in a way I haven’t been in days.
A soft ache.
The kind that doesn’t hurt.
The kind that reminds.
My breath leaves me slowly as I stay where I am for a moment longer, letting that feeling spread, letting it sit, letting myself exist inside it without immediately analyzing it or pushing it away.
Because I know what it is.
I know where it came from.
And more than anything, I know that it’s exactly what I needed.
My eyes open slowly.
The room is quiet, soft morning light filtering in through the curtains, everything still in that calm, suspended space before the day fully begins.
And then I feel it. Warmth beside me. Solid. Familiar. I turn my head. Zach is already awake, watching me.
There’s something in his expression that shifts the second my eyes meet his, something soft and grounding and steady that settles into me immediately.
“Good morning, baby,” he murmurs.
My lips curve without effort, without thought.
“Good morning.”
His hand moves almost absently, brushing slowly over my arm, fingertips tracing up and down in a way that’s gentle but not cautious, present but not hesitant.
“How are you feeling?” he asks quietly.
I don’t answer straight away.
Not because I don’t know, but because I want to feel it properly before I say it.
I shift slightly under the sheets, testing it, noticing the way my body responds, the way the soreness is there but not overwhelming, the way that deeper warmth still lingers, still anchors me.
And I smile.
“I feel good.”
The words land solid. True. Something in him eases, just slightly.
“That’s what I want to hear.”
My gaze drifts around the room for a second before settling back on him.
“Where’s Jackson?”
Zach lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.
“He’s taken it upon himself to make breakfast.”
That pulls a soft laugh from me, unexpected but real.
“Oh no.”
He smiles faintly.
“I can’t promise nothing’s burnt,” he adds, “but he was very determined.”
Something warm settles in my chest at that. At the thought of him out there. Trying.
I shift again, and this time I become aware of something else, of myself. Of the fact that I’m still naked.
The memory flickers back, not sharp, not overwhelming, but present enough to make that warmth deepen, to make something inside me respond instinctively instead of shutting down.
And instead of pulling away from it, I move toward him. Closer Sliding into him without thinking about it, my body fitting against his like it belongs there, like it knows exactly where it needs to be.
His arm comes around me immediately, like he’s been waiting for it, his hand settling at my back as he presses a soft kiss into my hair.
I breathe him in.
Let myself feel him.
“Zach…” I murmur.
His hand stills slightly.
“Yeah, baby?”
I press my face into his chest, my fingers curling lightly against his skin.
“I don’t want to lose myself in everything that happened.”
The words come out softer than I expect. More fragile.
“I need to feel like your woman again,” I whisper. “Like I belong to all of you.”
His arm tightens just a fraction. Not enough to hold me in place. Just enough to anchor me.
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know you needed that.”
There’s a pause.
“And I know Jackson needed it too.”
I nod slightly, my throat tightening just a little.
“I’m worried about Elijah.”
Zach shifts just enough that I feel his attention sharpen.
“Why?”
Because I already know the answer.
“Because he won’t touch me,” I say softly. “Not the way he used to.”
The words sit heavier than I expect them to.
“None of you have been.”
There’s truth in that. Even now. Even here.
“I know he loves me,” I continue, lifting my head slightly so I can look at him. “I don’t doubt that. But it feels like he sees me as something… fragile.”
The word feels wrong in my mouth. Like something I don’t want attached to me.
“And I’m scared that being pregnant is going to make that worse,” I admit. “Like I’m going to lose that part of him completely.”
His hand moves slowly up my back. Grounding.
“You’re not going to lose him.”
“I already feel like I am,” I whisper.
The honesty of it sits between us.
“I’m still me,” I continue, my voice soft but steadier now. “I’m still the woman you all fell in love with. I still need that. I still need to feel that.”
I swallow slightly.
“I’m trying to process everything in my own way. I know it’s messy. I know it’s not perfect. But I need to feel connected to you. To all of you.”
He studies me. Really studies me. And something in his expression shifts.
“You are still my woman,” he says quietly.
The words land. Deep. I hold his gaze.
“Prove it.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Slow. Deliberate.
“How would you like me to prove that, baby?”
My breath catches slightly.
“By reminding me,” I whisper, “that I’m yours.”
There’s a pause. A real one. Not hesitation. Control.
And then his hand slides up, cupping my face, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a slow, deliberate movement that makes my body react before my mind can catch up.
And when he leans in, this time he doesn’t stop at gentle.
His mouth presses to mine with intention, not rushed, not rough, but present in a way that makes something inside me immediately come alive.
I respond without thinking.
My fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer, deepening it, needing more, chasing that feeling that’s been just out of reach since I woke up.
His breath catches.
A low sound leaves him, something rougher than before.
“God…” he murmurs against my mouth, his forehead brushing mine for a second before he kisses me again. “I missed the feel of you.”
And that, that pulls something deeper from me.
Something that’s been sitting under the surface, waiting.
I kiss him harder this time, not careful, not hesitant, and I feel it when something in him shifts, when that restraint loosens just enough to let more of him through.
His hand tightens slightly at my jaw. His body presses closer. And I feel it. That connection. That heat. That certainty. That I’m still his. That I still belong. That I’m still me.
His mouth claims mine with slow, deliberate intent.
No rush. Just heat and certainty. When I moan softly into the kiss, he swallows the sound like it belongs to him, one large hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, holding me exactly where he wants me.
His tongue slides against mine in unhurried strokes, tasting, exploring, drawing out every small sound I make until my fingers curl into his shoulders.
He pulls back only far enough to look at me, eyes dark and steady. His thumb brushes my lower lip once, slow, feeling the way it trembles under his touch.
“You stopped feeling like my woman,” he says, voice low, rough at the edges. “I’m sorry for that. You are mine. And I’m going to remind you every day.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. He shifts us carefully, mindful of the healing wound on my side, easing me onto my back with strong hands that never press too hard.
He settles between my thighs, still wearing those grey sweatpants, the soft fabric warm and rough against my bare skin.
His body is heavy and solid above me, but he holds most of his weight on his forearms, protecting me even now.
He leans down and presses his mouth to my stomach.
Slow kisses. Reverent. He lingers there, lips warm and open against the faint swell that barely shows at seven weeks.
He kisses every inch of the soft skin, tongue tracing lightly, breathing me in like the feel of me under his mouth is something sacred.
Each press of his lips is deliberate, unhurried, sending little sparks of heat through my belly.
“This baby is a gift,” he murmurs against my skin, breath ghosting hot over me. “We’re going to have a big family. Lots of children. And through all of it, I’ll never stop reminding you, you’re my woman. How much I want you. How much I love you.”
Then he moves lower, kissing a slow trail down my body until he settles fully between my spread thighs.
He spreads me open wider with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he looks at me, really looks, eyes heavy with hunger.
He leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through my folds in one long, slow lick, from entrance to clit.
The moan that rips out of me is helpless.
He hums deep in his chest, the vibration rolling straight through me, and does it again, slower this time, savoring every inch of my taste.
His tongue circles my clit with devastating patience, flicking lightly, then pressing firmer, learning exactly how much pressure makes my hips twitch.
He slides two thick fingers inside me, stretching me open inch by careful inch, curling them deep until they stroke that perfect spot inside.
Every moan, every gasp, every shudder of my thighs around his head, he drinks it all in like he’s addicted.
He doesn’t speed up. He keeps the rhythm slow and relentless, tongue working my clit in lazy circles while his fingers pump in and out with deep, measured strokes.
The wet sounds of his mouth on me fill the quiet room, obscene and intimate.
My back arches when the pleasure starts to coil tight, but his free hand presses gently on my lower belly, holding me down, keeping me right where he wants me.