Sofia
My phone hasn’t moved from my hand in four hours. Every time the screen dims, I tap it back to life. No new messages. No calls. Nothing.
I tell myself that’s good. If something went wrong, someone would have called. Nelson would have heard something. Kirill would have texted me.
But the silence is killing me.
I pace the office. Then the living room. Then back to the office. Nelson shadows me at a distance, not saying anything. He knows better than to try to calm me down right now.
Every second feels like an eternity.
What if something went wrong? What if Yuri was ready for them? What if Yuri killed Sergei? Without him, I’m dead and our child will die with me.
“He’s going to be okay,” I whisper to myself. “He has to be okay.”
Because I need to tell him. I need to see his face when I tell him he’s going to be a father. I need to see if it scares him or excites him.
I need him to come home.
I hear the front door open. My heart stops.
I freeze in the middle of the office. I wait for gunfire or shouting. Nelson to rush me out of the house.
Nothing.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Please be him. Please be him. Please—
Sergei appears in the doorway.
He’s covered in blood. His hands, his clothes, his face. But he’s standing. He’s breathing. He’s alive.
“It’s done,” he says.
Two words. That’s all it takes.
The relief hits me so hard my knees buckle. I reach out to steady myself against the desk, but I can’t hold it together. Not anymore.
He moves toward me. I throw myself at him. I don’t care about the blood.
I just need to hold him. Feel his heart beating strong.
My arms wrap around his waist. I bury my face against his chest. The sob that tears out of me is ugly and raw and I can’t stop it.
“I’ve got you, buntarka,” he murmurs, his arms coming around me. “I’ve got you.”
I’m crying for everything. For my mother who died because she dared to want something for herself. For the years I spent not knowing what my father had done. For the little girl I was who believed her daddy loved her.
I cry for the woman I’ve become—hardened and scarred and so tired of fighting.
I cry until I’m empty. Until there’s nothing left but exhaustion and relief and this overwhelming gratitude that he’s still breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I finally manage, my voice hoarse. “Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You need to shower.”
“I do, but it can wait.”
His blue eyes are intense, searching my face like he’s making sure I’m really okay.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you for coming back.”
“I’ll always come back to you.” He brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away the tears. “Always.”
I need to tell him. Right now. Before I lose my nerve.
“Sergei, I need to tell you something.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I mean, nothing bad.” I take a shaky breath. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air between us.
I watch his face, trying to read his reaction. His eyes widen slightly. His lips part. But he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me.
“Say something,” I whisper. “Please.”
“You’re pregnant?”
I nod. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but everything was happening so fast and I didn’t want to distract you when Yuri was still out there.”
His hand slides from my face down to my stomach. He presses his palm flat against me, right where mine was moments ago.
“A baby,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.
“Yes.”
“Are you okay with this?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “Am I okay with this?” He laughs. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh.
He kisses me hard.
When he pulls back, I see a man I’ve never seen before. Softer. Loving. “I love you,” he says. “Both of you.”
The tears start again, but these are different. These are happy tears.
“I love you too,” I whisper.
“I know, buntarka.” He presses his forehead against mine. “I know.”
“I need a shower,” he says after a moment. “And then I need you in our bed.”
I nod, stepping back to let him go. But he catches my hand.
“Come with me.”
I follow him upstairs to our bathroom. He strips off his blood-soaked clothes while I start the shower, adjusting the temperature until it’s perfect.
I undress too. He steps into the shower and holds his hand out to me. I take it and let him pull me under the spray.
The water runs red at first, washing away the evidence of what he did tonight.
“I killed him,” Sergei says quietly. “Drove a knife into his heart.”
“Good.” I mean it. Yuri tried to kill me. Tried to take everything from me. He deserved what he got.
Sergei washes himself methodically, scrubbing away the blood and the smell of gunpowder. I help him, running my soapy hands over his chest, his shoulders, his arms.
When we’re both clean, he turns off the water and wraps me in a towel. He’s gentle. Careful. Like I might shatter.
“I’m not fragile,” I tell him. “I’m pregnant, not broken.”
“I know.” He kisses my forehead. “But you’re carrying something precious. I’m allowed to be careful with you.”
I can’t argue with that.
We dry off and move to the bedroom. He pulls the blanket back and I climb in.
“I need you,” he says.
His body moves over mine, keeping his weight supported on his elbows.
His weight is comforting, grounding. I wrap my arms around him and hold on.
He kisses me everywhere, my hair, my face with special attention on my breasts.
“Oh God,” I moan. “My breasts are so sensitive.”
He flashes a wicked smile. “Yeah?”
His teeth tug at one nipple. I gasp, my back arching off the bed.
“You’re a cruel man.”
“Am I?” he teases and pinches my other nipple while sucking on the first.
He moves his body to the left and slides his hand over my stomach, pausing for a moment before cupping my pussy.
“Don’t tease,” I moan.
His fingers slide through my wetness. I’m already so worked up that even the lightest touch makes me whimper.
“Please,” I beg, my hips lifting toward his hand.
“So impatient,” he murmurs against my breast, his breath hot on my sensitive skin.
He pushes one finger inside me, then another, curling them in that perfect way that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. His thumb finds my clit. I cry out, my hands fisting in the sheets.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice low and rough. “Let me hear you.”
He works me, his fingers pumping in and out while his thumb circles my clit in maddening strokes. The pressure builds low in my belly, coiling tighter and tighter.
I’m so close.
His mouth closes around my nipple again, sucking hard, and that’s all it takes. I shatter, my body convulsing as pleasure crashes through me in waves. I scream his name, not caring who might hear.
He doesn’t stop. He keeps moving his fingers, drawing out my orgasm until I’m trembling and oversensitive and begging him to stop.
Finally, he withdraws his hand and brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean while holding my gaze. The sight makes my spent body clench with renewed need.
“You taste like heaven,” he says.
I reach for him, pulling him down for a kiss. I taste myself on his tongue. It’s intimate. Perfect.
“I need you inside me,” I whisper against his lips.
He positions himself at my entrance, his gaze locks on mine.
He slides in slowly, carefully, like I’m made of glass. The stretch is perfect. The fullness is exactly what I need.
“I love you,” he says, his forehead pressed against mine. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too.”
He starts to move, long slow strokes that make my toes curl. This isn’t the rough, desperate sex we’ve had before.
This is making love.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He groans, his control slipping slightly.
“You feel so good,” he pants. “So perfect.”
I’m already climbing toward another orgasm. My body is so sensitive, so responsive to him. Every thrust hits exactly where I need it.
The bed creaks under our weight. Each hard push sends a wave of pleasure through my entire being. His hips slap against mine, our breathing growing ragged as we lose ourselves in the heat of the moment.
“Fuck, Sofia,” he groans.
My nails dig into his shoulders. He doesn’t seem to notice or care. All he cares about is making me come apart beneath him again and again until I’m limp and sated and utterly fulfilled.
When he finally comes, we’re both slick with sweat. He nuzzles his face into my neck.
“Sleep,” he says. “You’re safe.”
I want to argue, but I’m so sated. And so tired. His warm body snuggles against mine.
I know I’m safe in my husband’s arms.