Page 59 of Forced Pregnant Bride

He is not easy to love.

He is harsh, unyielding, and terrifying in his intensity. But I guess that’s what makes it real.

With him, love isn’t a feeling—it’s a conviction.

It is more than butterflies in my stomach or the racing of my heart when he is near, though those things happen, too. It is deeper, rooted in the way he looks at me like I am more important to him than I think I am, even when he tries to hide it. It is in the way he protects me, fiercely, without hesitation.

When I am with him, I feel…seen. Completely. Like he stripped me down to my very soul and decided I was worth loving anyway.

I’ve never felt this kind of love before. It’s terrifying and beautiful all at once. It doesn’t just sit on the surface; it digs deep, pulling at every corner of who I am, reshaping me in ways I can’t fully understand yet.

And I love him back more than I ever thought possible. I love the way he carries his pain, the way his hands are rough yet gentle when they touch me. I love the man behind the walls he’s built, the one he lets me see when no one else is watching.

This realization isn’t sudden—it’s been growing, piece by piece, with every moment we’ve shared: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. But now, sitting here, it feels overwhelming, undeniable. And it’s not just love. It’s certainty. Conviction.

I am in love with my husband.

Timur is mine, and maybe I am his. I’ll probably never know if I’ll be the only one for him, like he is the only one for me, and I will probably never tell him. But nothing in the world could ever change that.

“Great. Never to see the light of day.” I slammed the book shut, admiring the glittering grey cover of my newest hardback 2024 journal. Again, one of my husband’s many gifts to me.

Pregnant and idle—great thanks to my husband’s busy schedule, which kept him away from home more often— after my first trimester, I developed an itch to start a new hobby. Journal entry-ing, if there was ever such a thing.

Today marked the eighth month since I’d officially started this baby-carrying journey and five months since my journal entry hobby, and it had been wholesome. I wrote mostly about our baby’s development, my constant mood swings, and uncontrollable sexual urges.

And my husband.

He didn’t even realize it, but he was the number one star on my headlines, and the great part was that I had the liberty to express myself, to say every single thing without shame or fear of what he’d think. The not-so-great part?

I didn’t want to scare him away.

It didn’t take a genius to know that Timur was not a sharer, and while I felt ecstatic about the discovery of my love for him, I knew the depths of his pasts. At least enough to know that he might not have the capacity to love me back. His trauma had made him reject affection while growing up. I wasn’t sure ifIwas ready to face that rejection.

So, opening up to him was not an option.

I sat on the couch, my swollen feet propped up on a pillow, one hand resting on my belly as I picked up my phone and scrolled through. It was another thing on my checklist.

Journal entry?

Shop for baby clothes online?

Wait up for my husband to come home….

Have mind-blowing sex….

Blushing, I scrolled away from my mobile to-do list app and went instead to check picture samples of baby clothes on Pinterest. More recently, my audacity scared me when it came togoing under the covers with Timur. Timur made curt comments about it, too; he’d noticed it and liked it.

The baby kicked a strong nudge against my ribs that made me pause and smile. “You’re restless today, aren’t you?” I murmured, rubbing the spot gently. “Missing your daddy? I am, too.”

The screen glowed with images of tiny onesies and soft blankets. I’d been doing this almost every day lately: searching for the perfect outfits, the coziest swaddles, the cutest little hats. It wasn’t just shopping; it was a way to distract myself from the weight of waiting.

I stopped on a set of pastel-colored rompers, each one embroidered with tiny animals—bears, ducks, and elephants. They were impossibly small, and I couldn’t help but wonder how something so delicate would soon be filled by the little life growing inside me.

The thought brought a lump to my throat. The day was approaching so fast, yet somehow, it still felt like an eternity away. I pressed my hand to my belly, feeling the steady rhythm of movement beneath my palm. Every kick, every twist, reminded me that soon, everything would change.

Soon, I’d become a mother.

My baby kicked again, harder this time, and I winced. “Alright, I get it. You’re not a fan of the elephants?” I teased softly, as if my tiny one could hear me.

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