10. Maksim #3
“Sometimes I see her looking at me, and she looks she’s about to cry. But then she smiles and pretends she’s okay.” He fidgets with the book. “Is it because of me? Did I do something wrong? Is it because of the Bratva?”
My chest tightens. “No, Danya. You didn’t do anything wrong. Your mother loves you more than anything in the world.”
“Then why does she look sad? Is she scared of the bad guys you fight?”
How do I explain this to a nearly eight-year-old? How do I tell him that his mother is fighting battles I can’t even see?
“Your mother has been through a lot,” I say carefully. “She’s had to be very strong for a very long time. Sometimes when you’re strong for too long, it gets heavy. Does that make sense?”
He nods slowly. “Like when I carry too many books and my arms get tired?”
“Exactly like that. Your mama has been carrying a lot of heavy things, and sometimes it makes her tired.”
“Can we help her?” Daniel asks hopefully. “Make it lighter?”
The innocence of the question and the genuine concern in his eyes, makes my throat close up.
“We’re trying,” I tell him. “You help her just by being you and making her laugh.”
“Okay.” He seems satisfied with this answer. “Will the new baby make her happier when it comes?”
Daniel had been beside himself with joy when Aria and I had told him he was going to get a baby brother or sister.
“I think so,” I say, hoping it’s true. “I think having another person to love will make all of us happier.”
That night, after Daniel is asleep, I find Aria in bed reading. She’s propped up against the headboard in one of my t-shirts. She’s been stealing them constantly as according to her, they’re more comfortable than her own clothes.
The bedside lamp casts soft light across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, and the dark fall of her hair over one shoulder. She’s not wearing makeup, and I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the small changes pregnancy is making to her features.
She’s never looked more beautiful.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask as I join her in bed.
She sets down her book, looking wary. “What?”
“Tell me about Daniel’s early years. The things I missed.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “Please. I need to know.”
Her expression softens. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. When he first smiled. When he first walked. What his favorite toy was. What songs you sang to him.” I move closer, needing to be near her. “All of it.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then pulls out her phone. “I can show you some things if you want.”
My heart stutters. “Yes. Please.”
She scoots over, making room for me to sit beside her. Then she opens her photo gallery, and my world narrows to the small screen showing me my son’s life.
Daniel as a newborn, tiny and red-faced, wrapped in a hospital blanket. Aria holding him, looking exhausted but radiant.
Daniel at six months, sitting up, a gummy smile wide and joyful.
Daniel taking steps, wobbling toward Aria’s outstretched hands in what looks like a cramped apartment.
“He was eleven months,” Aria says softly, smiling at the photo. “He was so determined. He kept trying even when he fell.”
Daniel on his first birthday with a cupcake, frosting smeared all over his face.
Daniel at two, running through a park, his laughter captured in a video clip.
She scrolls through years of photos and videos, narrating each one. Daniel’s first day of preschool. Daniel learning to ride a tricycle. Daniel at Halloween dressed as a pirate. Daniel asleep with that rabbit that’s still his favorite.
I watch every single one, memorizing details, trying to fill in the gaps of the years I lost.
Her phone, while beat up, is filled with pictures and videos of Daniel’s childhood. It’s the most valuable thing I’ve ever seen. I want to ask her to give me the phone so I can put all these precious pictures and videos onto a hard drive and I can look at them whenever I want.
“He said his first word at ten months,” she tells me. “It was ‘mama’ which surprised me as that’s not typically a baby’s first word. I cried for an hour.”
“What should his first word have been?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away.
“Papa,” she whispers. “It should have been Papa.”
The admission makes my throat close up. I pull her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders, and she leans into me as we continue scrolling.
By the time we’ve gone through them all, I’m barely holding it together. Years of my son’s life, compressed into a few thousand photos. So much I missed. So much I can never get back.
“Thank you,” I manage. “For showing me.”
“I should have—” Her voice breaks and she takes a deep breath. “You should have been there. For all of it. I’m sorry.”
I tilt her face up to mine. “We can’t change the past. But we can make sure I don’t miss anything with this baby.” I place my hand over hers on her stomach. “I’m going to be there for everything. Every appointment. Every milestone. Every moment.”
“I know.” She covers my hand with her free one. “I can see it in how you are with Daniel. You’re a good father, Maksim.”
Her admission makes my cheeks warm. “I’m trying to be.”
“You are.” She shifts to face me more fully, the blankets falling to her lap. “You’re patient with him. You teach him things. You make time for him even when you’re busy. You love him.”
“Of course I love him. He’s my son.”
“Not all fathers—” She stops herself, her face sad, before she continues. “My father loved me, but he was always working. He was always too busy. You’re not like that. You make Daniel feel important and wanted.”
The words settle into my chest, warm and precious. “He is important. He’s everything.”
“So is this baby.” Her hand moves under mine, a gentle circle over her stomach. “I want you to know—I want this baby. I know I panicked at first, but I want them.”
“So do I.” I lean my forehead against hers. “More than I can say.”
We sit like that for a moment, breathing the same air, hands joined over the life we created.
Then I kiss her.
It’s different from our usual kisses—no anger, no desperation. Just soft and slow and sweet. She makes a small sound and opens for me, her hands coming up to cup my face.
I ease her back against the pillows, careful of her stomach, and settle between her thighs. The kiss deepens, but it’s still gentle. I’m trying to tell her with my mouth all the things I can’t seem to say with words.
I love you. I never stopped loving you. You’re everything.
I strip away her t-shirt slowly, revealing her body inch by inch.
Every change the pregnancy has brought feels like a gift I don’t deserve.
Her breasts are heavier in my hands, the nipples darker and more sensitive.
The gentle curve of her stomach is more pronounced lying down, a visible swell that makes something fierce and possessive rise in my chest.
My child. Our child. Growing inside her.
Her skin is warm and soft under my hands, and I map every new curve with my fingers, my lips, committing it all to memory.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. “So fucking beautiful.”
“I’m getting bigger.” But there’s no real complaint in her voice, just a hint of self-consciousness.
“You’re carrying our child. Growing our baby.” I press a kiss to her stomach, right where our child is nestled safe inside her. “There’s nothing more beautiful than that. Nothing in the world.”
I take my time with her. This isn’t about the desperate release we usually seek from each other, isn't about channeling rage into passion. This is about showing her—proving to her—that this means something. That she means something.
That she means everything.
I kiss every inch of skin I can reach. The curve of her neck where her pulse flutters wild beneath my lips. The hollow of her throat. The valley between her breasts. I take one nipple gently into my mouth and she gasps, her hands coming up to tangle in my hair.
“Maksim.” My name is breathless and needy and it goes straight to my cock.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against her skin. “I’ve got you, moya krasavitsa.”
I savor the new curves of her body with my mouth. The swell of her breasts. The curve of her hip. The soft skin of her inner thigh. She’s trembling beneath me, her breath coming in short gasps, and I’ve barely touched her.
“Please.” Her voice is small, desperate. “Maksim, please.”
“Not yet,” I whisper against her, pressing a kiss just below her ear. “Let me have this. Let me take my time with you.”
I kiss my way down her body slowly. Her pulse is racing as my tongue traces her neck. My tongue traces the delicate line of her collar bone. She gasps, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders.
“Relax,” I softly laugh. “We have all night. I’m not rushing this.”
I continue my exploration, kissing back to her breasts because I can’t help myself. I take another nipple into my mouth and she arches off the bed with a sharp inhale.
“Oh my god—”
“Too much?” I gentle my touch immediately, switching to soft kisses instead.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly. “No.” Her voice is strangled, hair already tangled around her face. “Just... different. More sensitive.”
“I’ll be careful.” I lavish attention on her breasts, learning what she can handle now and what makes her moan versus what makes her wince.
When I’ve savored every inch, I move lower to the sensitive spot just below her ribs that always made her squirm.
I kiss it now, and she moans, her stomach muscles fluttering beneath my lips.
Smiling, I move lower still, to the gentle swell of her stomach. I pause there, pressing kisses across the curve where our child is growing. The skin is taut and warm, and beneath my lips I can almost imagine I feel the life pulsing there.
“You’re carrying my child,” I say against her skin, the wonder of it still hitting me in waves. My hand spreads across her stomach, protective and possessive. “My baby is growing right here. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”
“Tell me.” Her voice is breathless, her fingers threading through my hair.