Chapter Morning Light
Morning Light
The sun stretched across the penthouse floor like melted gold.
His shirt hung loose on my body, smelling like cedar and sleep and the faint scorch of his cologne.
I tried to stir the tea. Tried. My hands shook too much.
My brain still hadn’t caught up with the fact that I was carrying two babies—his babies.
I didn’t even hear him approach. A warm hand slid across my lower back. “You’re moving in today.” No greeting. No hesitation. Just a velvet command that made my knees betray me.
I turned, heart hammering. Shirtless, half-awake, eyes locked on mine like he already owned the next forty years. “Alexander… we haven’t even talked—”
“No.” His voice was final. “You’re moving in. Pick your office. I’ll set it up for remote work. I’ll have your place packed before lunchtime.”
“You don’t get to decide—”
“You’re carrying my children,” he said, stepping closer. “So, I do.” I glared. He stepped closer. We repeated our stupid, familiar dance. “Two options,” he said, holding up two fingers. “You work from home. Or you don’t work at all, and I take care of everything.”
“I’m not quitting—”
“Then pick the fucking office, Evelyn.”
God, he was infuriating. Arrogant. Overbearing. And the way his voice dipped around my name made something inside me melt. “You’re bossy,” I muttered.
“I’m in love.” That shut me up. Completely. His hand slid up my spine. “You nearly died, Evelyn. I won’t take chances again. Not with you. Not with our babies.” And this wasn’t control. It was devotion. It was a fortress built around my bones.
“Alexander,” I whispered, “you can’t decide everything. I need—”
“You need to feel safe,” he growled, caging me against the counter.
“And I need to make sure no one ever gets close enough to hurt you again.” His fingers lifted my chin.
“You’re not going back to that apartment.
You’re not waking up without me beside you.
I’m not asking.” Then he kissed me. Hard. Hungry. Desperate.
He lifted me onto the counter. His hands slid beneath the shirt. His mouth found my skin.
His touch worshipped and claimed in equal measure. “You’re mine,” he murmured against my breast. “Mine to protect. Mine to touch. Mine to rebuild.” His hand pressed over my stomach. “I still can’t believe you’re carrying our children.”
I cupped his jaw, pulling him up to me. “Then show me,” I whispered. “Right here.”
And he did. Slow. Deep. Devoted. A promise written in the language of bodies.