Chapter 17 #2
Rafael reaches into the pocket of his jacket and produces something that makes my heart clench with recognition. The ring I dropped at his feet three months ago, the diamond and sapphires cleaned and polished until they gleam like stars in the candlelight.
"Because three months is long enough to prove that I am not going anywhere." He sinks to one knee on the stone floor, and I hear Drake make a sound that might be a laugh or might be a prayer. "Because as selfish as it sounds, I can't go another day without having you in my arms."
He holds up the ring, and his voice cracks on the next words.
"Because I love you, Persia. Not as an heir-maker or a contract or a solution to my problems. But as the woman who taught me that mercy is not weakness and that love is worth more than any empire.
Marry me. Not because you have no other choice, but because you choose me the way I choose you. Every day. For the rest of our lives."
The tears spill over as I look at this man who crashed into my life with guns blazing and somehow became the only place I have ever felt safe. I think about all the reasons I should say no, all the ways his world is dangerous and complicated.
And then I think about the child growing inside me, the piece of both of us that exists because we found each other in a room full of candlelight and desperate wishes.
"Yes." The word comes out on a breath, barely audible over the thundering of my heart. "Yes, Rafael. I choose you."
He slides the ring onto my finger with hands that are still trembling, and then he is on his feet and pulling me into his arms and kissing me like a man who has been dying of thirst and just found water.
I taste salt on his lips and realize that the untouchable mafia king is crying, tears streaming down his face as he holds me close enough to feel his heart pounding against mine.
"Get out," he growls against my mouth, and for a moment I think he is talking to me until I hear the shuffle of feet and the soft click of the chapel door closing behind his brothers.
We are alone, surrounded by candlelight and white roses and the promise of a future I never dared to dream of.
His hands find the zipper at the back of my dress, and I help him slide it down, stepping out of the fabric until I am standing before him in nothing but silk and skin.
His eyes roam over me with a hunger that makes heat pool low in my belly, and then they catch on the gentle swell of my stomach that is just barely visible in the golden light.
He goes very still.
"Persia." My name is a question and a prayer and something that sounds like awe. "Are you...?"
I take his hand and press it against my belly, letting him feel the truth I have been carrying alone for six weeks. "I was going to tell you. I just needed to figure out how to say it without making you think I was only coming back because of the baby."
"How long?" His voice is hoarse, wrecked, and when I look up at his face I see tears streaming fresh down his cheeks.
"About three months. I found out six weeks ago.
" I cover his hand with mine, holding him against the place where our child grows.
"I was scared, Rafael. Scared that I would lose myself again, scared that you would only want me because of what I could give you.
But then I realized that being scared is not the same as being trapped.
And loving you does not make me less myself. It makes me more."
He drops to his knees again, but this time it is to press his lips against my stomach, to whisper words I cannot quite hear into the skin where our baby sleeps. His shoulders shake with emotion, and I run my fingers through his dark hair while the candlelight dances around us like something holy.
"I wanted an heir," he says against my belly, his breath warm through the thin silk of my underwear.
"I wanted someone to carry on my legacy, to secure my empire, to give me a reason to keep fighting.
But this..." He looks up at me with eyes that hold nothing but love and wonder.
"This is not about heirs or legacies or empires.
This is about a family. Our family. Yours and mine and this miracle we made together.
I pull him to his feet and kiss him with everything I have, pouring three months of loneliness and longing and desperate hope into the press of my lips against his.
He responds with equal fervor, his hands sliding up my sides to cup my breasts through the silk of my bra, his thumbs tracing circles around nipples that have grown more sensitive in recent weeks.
We undress each other slowly, savoring every revealed inch of skin.
He kisses the scars on my back like they are precious, proof of strength rather than shame, and I trace the lines of ink across his chest with trembling fingers, relearning the map of a body I have missed more than I knew how to say.
When he finally enters me, it feels like coming home.
We move together in the candlelight, surrounded by white roses and stained glass.
He is tender in a way he never was before, his hands cradling my hips as he rocks into me with deep, slow strokes that build pleasure in waves.
I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel every inch of connection between us.
"I love you," he breathes against my throat, and the words shatter something that has been clenched tight inside my chest for longer than I can remember.
"I love you too." The confession comes easily now, freely given rather than forced. "I love you, Rafael Milano. And I choose you. Today and tomorrow and every day after that."
He comes undone with my name on his lips, and I follow him over the edge moments later, my body clenching around his as waves of pleasure roll through me like thunder.
We collapse together on the altar of this beautiful, impossible chapel, tangled in each other and breathing hard and laughing at the absurdity of finding forever in a place built for secrets and sin.
"Tell me about the baby," he murmurs against my hair, his hand finding my stomach again like he cannot bear to stop touching the place where our child grows. "Tell me everything."
So I do. I tell him about the morning sickness and the cravings for beignets at three in the morning and the first time I felt a flutter that might have been movement. I tell him about the fear and the joy and the overwhelming love that crashes over me every time I think about our future.
And when the candles burn low and the roses begin to wilt, we put our clothes back on and walk out of the chapel hand in hand, ready to face whatever comes next.
Together. Me and my wicked mafia king.