Page 84 of Beautiful Agony

My stomach lets out a loud growl, breaking the tender moment between us.

"When's the last time you've eaten,zvyozdochka?" Vadim's hand finds the small of my back, concern etching his features.

"I... I'm not sure."

"Let me get you something," he says, already moving toward the door. The protective instinct in his voice makes my heart flutter.

"Go with him," Megan says, giving me a knowing look. "I can tell you both have things to talk about." She glances meaningfully at my belly. "Besides, you're eating for two now. Can't have my future niece or nephew going hungry."

She turns to Dad, her voice brightening. "Did you hear that, Dad? You're going to be a grandfather soon!"

Dad's eyes light up at the word 'grandfather,' and he turns towards me as a ghost of a smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. The simple gesture brings tears to my eyes.

"Come on," Vadim says softly, extending his hand to me. "Let me take care of you both."

I take his hand, letting him pull me to my feet. The warmth of his palm against mine helps chase away the lingering chill from the dungeon below.

Vadim moves with practiced efficiency,gathering ingredients from the well-stocked pantry. My stomach growls again as I watch him pull out eggs, butter, heavy cream, and fresh pasta.

"You cook?" I ask, unable to hide my surprise.

"Lenka taught me," he says, cracking eggs into a bowl. "Said if I was going to run away from my tutors, I might as well learn something useful while hiding in her kitchen."

The image of a young Vadim sneaking away to this very kitchen makes my heart ache with unexpected tenderness. Now heworks the same counters with confident movements, whisking the eggs with pecorino cheese while bringing a pot of water to boil.

"Carbonara," he explains, catching my questioning look. "Quick, filling, and exactly what you need right now."

My throat tightens as I watch him dice guanciale, the sharp knife moving in precise strokes. After everything that happened tonight, here he is, making sure I'm fed.

Taking care of me in this simple, profound way.

The kitchen fills with the rich smell of rendering pork. Vadim adds the fresh pasta to the boiling water, his movements precise and focused. There's something incredibly intimate about watching him cook for me, more intimate almost than when we make love.

Right now, he's not the ruthless pakhan who kept me from putting blood on my own hands. He's just my husband, making sure his pregnant wife doesn't go hungry.

He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up from the pan, those storm-gray eyes meeting mine. "What is it,zvyozdochka?"

"Thank you," I whisper, meaning so much more than just the meal. “Thank you for stopping me. Thank you for protecting me from myself. Thank you for loving me enough to keep me from becoming something I'm not."

Vadim's eyes soften at my whispered thanks. He sets down his wooden spoon and crosses to me in two long strides.

"Zvyozdochka," he murmurs, cupping my face in his hands. "Everything I do, I do because you're my wife. Mydutyis toprotect you, my job is to care for you, and my life is to love you until my final breath."

His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You changed everything for me. How could I not do the same for you? Both of you?"

One hand drifts down to rest protectively over my belly, and my heart flutters.

He returns to finishing our dinner, folding the pasta into the sauce with practiced movements. The rich aroma of cheese and pork makes my mouth water. When he plates the carbonara, the portions are generous to account for my increased appetite lately.

Vadim sets the steaming bowls down, then circles around to join me.

Vadim twirls the pasta around his fork and lifts it to my lips. The first bite of carbonara melts on my tongue—creamy, rich, and perfectly seasoned. Another tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it.

"Good?" he asks softly.

I can only nod, suddenly overwhelmed by how famished I am. My shoulders sag as weeks of tension finally start to uncoil. I hadn't realized just how tightly wound I'd been until this moment, sitting here in this warm kitchen while my husband feeds me pasta he made with his own hands.

"When did you last eat,zvyozdochka?" He brushes away my tear with his thumb.

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