Page 131 of Silence and Surrender

For me, it was 3:47 a.m. on a Tuesday when Isabella’s water broke. She’d been reviewing a painting in her studio, refusing to fully stop working even at nine months pregnant. One minute she was making notes on brushstroke, the next she was gripping the desk with white knuckles.

“It’s time,” she said calmly, though her eyes held a mix of fear and determination I’d never seen before.

The next twenty hours redefined my understanding of strength. Isabella worked through each contraction with the same fierce focus she’d once given to authenticating art. Her hands gripped mine as waves of pain wracked her body, but she never once gave up.

“They’re stubborn,” she managed between contractions. “Like their father.”

“More like their mother,” I countered, wiping sweat from her forehead. The twins seemed determined to take their time, testing her endurance with each passing hour.

When Antoine finally arrived, Isabella’s cry was pure triumph rather than pain. He entered the world screaming his displeasure, dark hair plastered to his head and tiny fists raised like he was ready to fight.

His brother James followed two minutes later, equally vocal about his opinions. They were perfect—angry and red-faced, but healthy. Strong. Ours.

Watching Isabella hold them for the first time broke something in my chest. The woman who had brought down an international trafficking ring while pregnant now gazed at our sons with wonder, all her usual sharp edges softened by exhausted joy.

Now, two months later, I found myself captivated by another kind of strength. Isabella sat in the window seat of our bedroom, morning light catching her profile as she nursed the twins. The sight stirred something primal in me—watching her guide James to her breast while Antoine already fed contentedly.

Her body had changed during pregnancy, growing softer in some places while staying strong in others. But it was watching her nurse our sons that fascinated me most. The way she instinctively knew their different cries. How she could calm them with just her touch. The quiet confidence she brought to motherhood, so different from her corporate work but no less impressive.

“You’re staring again,” she said without looking up, adjusting James’s position slightly.

“Can’t help it.” I moved closer, drawn to their quiet intimacy. The twins’ small hands curled into matching fists as they nursed, their dark hair and my brown eyes creating perfect blends of us both. “You’re beautiful like this.”

She smiled softly, touching James’s cheek as he fed. “Like what? Sleep deprived and leaking?”

“Like a mother.” I settled beside them, watching our sons nurse. Every tiny movement captivated me—the way their throats worked as they swallowed, their perfect fingers flexing against Isabella’s skin. “Like everything I never knew I needed.”

“The lactation consultant says their latch is improving,” she said, switching their positions with practiced grace. “Though James still struggles sometimes.”

I watched, mesmerized, as she guided our younger son to nurse. Something about seeing her this way—nurturing our children with her body after carrying them for nine months—made my chest tight with emotion I couldn’t quite name.

The boys fell asleep after feeding, milk-drunk and content. I helped Isabella settle them in their bassinets, marveling at how tiny they looked. All that strength and attitude packed into such small bodies.

“You need rest too,” I murmured, pulling her back to bed. Her body felt different against mine now—softer curves, new textures, but no less perfect. Better, in fact.

“Mmm.” She curled into me, and I felt her smile against my throat. “The doctor cleared me yesterday.”

My hands stilled where they’d been stroking her back. “For...”

“Everything.” She pressed closer, her changed body soft and warm. “Though we’ll need to be quiet. And careful.”

“We can do careful.” I traced the new curves of her hips, relearning her changed body. Nine months of pregnancy had left her softer in places, but no less captivating. “We’re good at careful.”

Her laugh turned to a gasp as my fingers found sensitive places. Even after birth, I remembered exactly how to touch her. Where to stroke, where to linger, where to make her breath catch.

“Very good,” she breathed, arching into my touch.

I took my time exploring her—the fuller breasts, tender from nursing. The slight roundness of her stomach where our sons had grown. The soft skin of her thighs. Each touch held months of wanting, of waiting, of needing to be gentle.

Her hands slid under my shirt, tracing the muscles she’d watched change during training. When she pulled the fabric over my head, her eyes held heat I hadn’t seen since before the twins were born.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, fingers trailing down my chest. “Missed this.”

“We have time.” I caught her hands, pressing kisses on her palms. “All the time we need.”

But when her mouth found my throat, careful started losing ground to need. Her body felt different against mine—softer, warmer, but still perfect. Still home.

“Isabella.” Her name was rough in my throat as she moved lower, trailing kisses down my chest. “We should—”

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