Chapter 47
Peighton
The days march on as I recover.
Gustav treats me like I am made of glass.
He shadows me from room to room, hovering close enough that I feel the heat of his body on the back of my neck.
His hand is always somewhere on me, often just the tips of his fingers resting at my hip bone, as if keeping contact will tether me to this world and keep me from fading again.
Our baby shifts and I glance down, reminding me I’m not dreaming. There is a whole person in there. A little Sokolov. Half me. Half him.
Honestly, that terrifies me.
The truth is, I didn’t want to be a mother yet. Not until I knew for certain Gustav was well.
And apparently, he is—
God, why am I doubting him? Be grateful.
I want Gustav to be a good father. I want him stable, present, protective in ways that do not involve hatchets and blood.
I know he took good care of me while I was out.
People keep telling me that. They say he did not leave my side.
They say he fed me and talked to me and cursed anyone who suggested she might not wake up.
But I was asleep then. Now I am awake again.
Did the madness really leave forever?
Just then, Gustav answers a call, and Micha gives me promising news.
“Gustav has behaved,” he says, watching me with a sympathetic softness. “No trouble with the Council. No trouble with rival families. Gustav only cared about you. They have eased off.”
Relief washes through me. A quiet, trembling exhale. If Gustav is stable, the Council has no reason to test him further. No reason to force me to choose between betraying my husband or dying with him.
But the relief is short-lived.
My phone buzzes on the table.
Rupert
Heard you awoke. Welcome back.
I slide the screen face-down. wondering what this means.
Physical therapy is brutal. My muscles are weak from disuse, my balance off, my coordination sluggish. Every stretch burns. Every step feels like walking underwater. But I push through it, driven by a mix of pride and desperation.
I don’t want Gustav treating me like a fragile ornament forever. I want to be the wife who ran through forests beside him. Who fought beside him. Who held his mind together with a touch.
My phone buzzes again during another session.
Damn.
Rupert
Have you thought about our conversation?
A shiver rolls down my spine He wants an answer. He wants me to deliver Gustav’s fate into his hands. Yet my husband is doing fine. He’s sound and present. I have nothing to worry about. Yeah.
I block Rupert.
Three weeks pass.
Pregnancy is untroubled. No Council contact. Therapy is improving my strength.
I feel great.
Except for one thing.
I curl beside Gustav on our bed. He is gentle with me.
Almost reverent. He strokes my hair and smooths the blankets around me, treating me like something sacred.
But he also avoids touching me too intimately.
He kisses my forehead instead of my mouth.
He wraps his arms around me but keeps his hips a careful distance away.
He watches me sleep instead of pulling me close to grind into my body the way he used to.
I hate it.
Not because I don’t understand, but because my body doesn’t care about logic anymore.
Desire curls low and hot in my belly, heavy and insistent, different than before.
It’s deeper now, slower and more demanding, like my body knows it’s not just mine anymore.
I want him in a way that feels primal and greedy, like I need him pressed into me to remind me I’m alive, that I survived, that we survived.
I catch myself staring at the curve of my stomach in the mirror, fingers tracing it absentmindedly, wondering if this is what changed him.
Wondering if the sight of me carrying his child unsettles him.
Or worse, softens him in a way that frightens him.
I’ve heard the rumors. Men who stop seeing their wives as lovers once they’re pregnant.
Men who only see a mother too cherished to be sexualized.
The thought makes something sharp twist in my chest. Because I don’t feel fragile. I feel powerful. Full. Hungry. I’ve never wanted him more than I do now, and the idea that he might not want me back makes me ache in places I didn’t know could ache.
A few sexless nights later, I wake to heat pooling behind me. His breath ghosts over my shoulder, slow and uneven, and beneath the silk of my nightgown, his body betrays him. He’s hard. Fully. Achingly. Pressed into me like he forgot, in sleep, that he was trying to be careful.
His hips move once, barely there, and I feel desire all the way down to my toes. The sound he makes isn’t conscious. It’s needy. Almost broken. I don’t dare move at first, afraid he’ll pull away again, afraid this fragile moment will shatter if I breathe too loud.
But that’s exactly what I do. I inhale sharply as the excitement builds, causing his entire body to go rigid. His breath catches. He presses his forehead to my neck like he’s fighting himself.
“Fuck,” he whispers into the dark, like a confession.
Was he sleeping? Awakened and surprised to be pawing at his wife?
Then he retreats, rolling onto his back, severing the connection.
I stare at the wall, heart racing, my body humming with unsatisfied need, knowing now that he wants sex. I’m just unsure if that want was for my body or a sensual dream that didn’t include me.
Another week passes. My shower sex attempt didn’t work. Belly getting bigger.
As well as my desire for the godlike man that sleeps beside me every night.
I’m worried. I’m doing well. He should want me. Yet I fail to excite him.
As normal, I’m discouraged and go to sleep unsatisfied.
In the middle of the night, my eyes snap open.
I wake to warmth again. His hand rests lightly over my waist. His body rolls toward mine. His hardness finds me through the silk and he grunts into the pillow, a low, aching sound.
He doesn’t want me to hear.
This time, I don’t look, hoping he takes this further.
I arch my hips very subtly, just enough to allow him easier access. Enough for the head of his length to catch at my entrance. My arousal coats his tip instantly.
He stills and trembles. His breath stutters.
Come on, baby, I pray to myself. Do it.
When the tip breaches my entrance, nudging in, the air leaves his lungs in a ragged curse.
He doesn’t thrust. He holds himself there, shaking. Resisting.
I squeeze my eyes shut, still silently begging.
His shaft inches forward, painfully slow, yet incredibly erotic.
Thank freaking God.
Deeply he fills my tight walls. It’s perfect. He can’t help it. Need overpowered fear. Need for me.
He moves again. A slow but steady rhythm.
“Mmm, moyá devushka,” he murmurs, almost inaudible.
His breath is short and hot against my neck. His dick throbs inside me, and now I’m the one losing my sanity. My mouth opens with a soft, involuntary moan—
He freezes.
His body locks. His breath stops.
I grin. He’s caught. I won’t let him play this off. I dig my fingernails into his hip and hold him in place, teasing low, “Gustav, you’re way too big for me to sleep through that.”
He pulls out fast, guilt flooding his features. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
I act before he can make excuses again. I swing a leg over him, straddling his hips, my palms sinking into the warm hardness of his chest. His eyes widen as I lower myself and take him inside me completely.
He groans. A deep, helpless sound that vibrates through my bones.
“Peighton,” he breathes, frustrated. “I’m already close. It has been too long.”
“Good,” I murmur. “My husband waited for me for months?”
“Always.”
I blush. He’s all mine.
I ride him, slow at first.
His palms slide reflexively to my stomach, fingers splayed, reverent. The moment his hand settles there, something inside him snaps. His control fractures. His eyes darken with something raw and worshipful.
“It’s sexy,” he nearly growls, “that your body carries my child. That everyone can see what I did to you. That we are bonded this way.”
The way he says it, with a mix of reverence and awe, sends heat flooding through me. I move against him, slow and firm, showing him I’m not fragile. Showing him I’m his. He grips my hips harder, guiding me now, need overtaking caution.
When he finally loses himself, it’s violent in the best way. He breaks beneath me, gasping my name, holding my body like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality. And when the pleasure crests, it’s not just physical. It’s emotional, overwhelming, and bonding.
He stays hard like the unpredictable, powerful man he is.
We make love long into the night, tangled in sheets and whispered declarations.