Page 121 of Silence and Surrender

“That second trimester was perfectly safe,” I finished for him, having committed the doctor’s exact words to memory for precisely this argument. “That we simply needed to be careful of positioning.”

His resistance was already crumbling; I could see it in the way his pulse jumped at his throat, in the slight dilation of his pupils. “You need rest,” he tried again, though his voice had roughened. “Tomorrow—”

“Is why I need this tonight,” I said, my hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. “Before everything changes again. Before you become a soldier instead of a lover.”

The last of his careful control dissolved at my words. His mouth found mine with unexpected hunger, kiss deepening immediately as his arms tightened around me. Gone was the hesitant restraint he’d maintained since learning about the twins, replaced by a fierce possessiveness that made my skin flush with heat.

“Isabella,” he breathed against my lips, halfway between prayer and damnation.

“Take me to bed,” I whispered back. “While it’s still just us. Before the world intrudes again.”

He stood in one fluid motion, lifting me with careful hands. The bedroom was shadowed, lit only by city light filtering through the windows. He laid me on our bed with exquisite care, but there was nothing careful about the way he followed me down, mouth reclaiming mine with a hunger that matched my own rising need.

His hands found the hem of my shirt and drew it upward. I lifted my arms, allowing him to remove it entirely, baring my skin to the cool air and his heated gaze.

His breath caught as he took in the changes to my body—fuller breasts, the rounded curve of my stomach where our sons grew. Reverence replaced hunger in his expression as his hand moved to trace the evidence of our love.

“A beautiful masterpiece,” he whispered, and I felt myself flush with pleasure at the raw honesty in his voice.

I reached for him, needing to feel his skin against mine. The buttons of his shirt gave way to impatient fingers, revealing the physical changes of his own transformation—shoulders broader, muscles more defined from Stryker’s regimen.

His lips found my neck, trailing fire down to my collarbone, then lower. My body begged for his touch, greedy for the sensation after weeks of careful distance. Pregnancy had heightened my sensitivity, turned every caress into something that bordered on overwhelming.

“Colton,” I gasped as his mouth found particularly sensitive skin.

His response was nonverbal, a sound somewhere between satisfaction and hunger. His hands resumed their exploration, relearning curves altered by pregnancy, discovering new sensitivities, new responses.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured against my skin, voice tight with desire. “So impossibly perfect.”

I would have laughed at the absurdity of the statement, me with my scars and trauma and growing belly, but the utter conviction in his tone left no room for disbelief. He meant it. In this moment, with his hands moving over my changed body, he truly saw perfection.

Time slowed, expanded. In the shadowed quiet of our bedroom, surrounded by layers of security and surveillance equipment, we found sanctuary in each other. His movements were careful but not hesitant, mindful of my condition without treating me as fragile. When he finally joined our bodies, it was with exquisite care that somehow heightened rather than diminished the intensity.

“My wife,” he whispered against my throat. “Mine.”

Words failed me, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion. I could only cling to him, nails leaving marks on his shoulders as pleasure built between us. His control was impressive but not infinite; I could feel it fracturing as he responded to my increasingly desperate movements.

Release came in waves, stealing my breath, my vision, my awareness of anything beyond where our bodies met. I felt his control finally shatter in response, his own release following mine with a ragged gasp of my name against my skin.

Afterward, he gathered me close with tender care, arranging our bodies so that no weight pressed against my stomach. One hand splayed protectively over where our sons grew, undisturbed by their parents’ passion.

“I love you,” I whispered into the quiet, the words still new enough to feel like a revelation. “Whatever happens tomorrow. Whatever comes after.”

His arms tightened fractionally, his lips pressing a kiss to my temple. “Nothing happens to you,” he promised, voice fierce despite its softness. “Nothing happens to our sons. I’ll burn down the entire world first.”

The declaration should have frightened me. Once, it would have. But now I recognized it for what it was, not a threat but a vow. Protection offered by the one man I trusted to keep me safe.

“One more day,” I murmured, sleep already pulling at me as the tension left my body. “Then Tuscany.”

“Then home,” he agreed, fingers tracing soothing patterns along my spine. “Then forever.”

Here, in the circle of my husband’s arms, with our sons growing between us, I found something I’d thought lost forever.

Peace. Protection. Possibility.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Colton

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