Page 87 of 10 Days to Surrender

The Italian couple beside us coo over his dedication. I want to scream that it’s a trick, a front, a facade. But when the instructor praises his form, Sasha’s touch caresses the nape of my neck—a fleeting, tender thing that smashes my resolve wide open.

During a break, I press my forehead to my knees.Just hormones, I lie to us both.Just biology.Just math.

His pen scratches on.

Signora Rossi claps her hands. “Now, partners—time to practice supporting through contractions.Andiamo!”

Sasha’s already moving behind me, his thighs bracing behind mine as I sit on the stupid purple yoga mat. His palms slide up my sides, just shy of ticklish. The class fades—there’s just themint-and-cedar scent of him, the warmth of his breath fanning over the back of my neck.

“Breathe,ptichka,” he murmurs against my ear. His fingers dig into a knot I didn’t know I had, coaxing a moan from my throat that has the German tourists chuckling.

I elbow him, red-faced. “Less happy ending, more labor support.”

His chuckle vibrates through me. “You want textbook? I can do textbook.” His hands shift, palms cradling the curve of my belly as he leans us both forward into a closer semblance of the “comfort position” from Rossi’s diagram. “Better?”

No! Worse! Much worse! I’m a mess, inside and out, sexually, emotionally, orgasmically, karmically. This was all a very bad idea.

“Forty seconds,” Rossi calls. “Hold the pose!”

Sasha’s lips hover over my temple. “You’re doing good.”

The praise shouldn’t matter. We’ve fucked in dressing rooms, against printing presses, on forest floors—a million places more exposed than this.

So why do I feel like I’m melting into him?

“Time!” Rossi trills.

I scramble upright too fast, knees popping like mini fireworks. “Great. Nice work, team. Looks like we’re done.”

Sasha catches my elbow, steadying me. “Ariel?—”

“I’m great!” I blurt, though he didn’t ask. I yank free of him and gesture at the exit. “I do need some air, though. Or a Xanax. Either one.”

I stride out, but I don’t get far. In the hallway, I find the coziest looking patch of floor and sink to a seat, rehearsing breathing techniques until my heart stops palpitating.

My laugh comes out jagged and delirious. Of course. Of fucking course this would be the thing to finally soften him—not guns or gangs or my smart mouth, but the clinical horror of childbirth prep.

The classroom door creaks open. Sasha looms in the threshold, backlit by the birthing class’s salt lamp glow.

He arches a brow. He doesn’t really need to ask the question.

I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. “Just realizing I’d rather birth these kids in a Denny’s parking lot than spend one more minute?—”

His fingers curl around my wrists, gentle but firm. “Look at me, Ariel.”

The hallway spins. Or maybe that’s just me.

“Whatever this is,” he says quietly, “we’re in it together. For good.”

The words, too kind to be coming from a man like him, slip under my skin the way they always do. I want to claw them out. Or wrap myself in them. Can’t decide which.

“You don’t get to promise that.”

“Don’t I?” His palm settles over my belly as he kneels next to me. “They’re mine. You’re mine. That makes every fucking breath I take yours, too.”

I open my mouth—to laugh, to scream, to agree—but Rossi’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Signori!Back to class,per favore!We practice breathing through nipple stimulation now!”

---