Page 33 of Porcelain Vows

I carry Stella into the bedroom, her body light despite her advanced pregnancy.

Her skin glows silver in the moonlight streaming through the windows as I lay her on the bed. Even in sleep, worry lines crease her forehead. These nightmares haunt her almost every night now.

“You are safe,zaychik,” I whisper, stroking her hair gently. When I’d seen her wander out to the pool, I’d expected that this might happen, so I’d kept an eye on her. I’ve learned to recognize the signs— the slight twitch of her fingers, the way her brow furrows, the soft whimpers that escape her lips. These episodes have become a pattern: insomnia, followed by emotional turbulence, ending with the terrors that grip her in sleep.

I slide into bed beside her, gathering her against my chest. Her body fits perfectly against mine, her rounded belly pressing into me— a constant reminder of what’s at stake. My hand moves to her back, tracing slow circles through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.

“Shh,” I murmur against her hair. “I’m here.”

Her breathing gradually slows, synchronizing with mine. The tension in her shoulders eases. This is where I want her to stay— in my bed, in my arms, where I can protect her.

My mind drifts to Bobik, sleeping peacefully in his room. My son. My daughter growing inside Stella. My family— a concept I never thought I’d embrace. The word sitsuncomfortably in my mind, loaded with both promise and danger.

Stella shifts slightly, pressing closer. Her warmth seeps into me, and I tighten my hold. The fierce possessiveness I feel surprises even me. I’ve spent my life avoiding attachments, seeing them as weaknesses to be exploited. Yet here I am, unable to let go of this woman who remembers nothing of our complicated past.

It’s for the best, mudak.

Her memory loss is both blessing and curse— it shields her from truths that would destroy what we’re building, but leaves her vulnerable, dependent.

Her breathing settles as she nuzzles up against me. I press my lips to her hair, inhaling her scent. There’s something sweet and helpless about her that makes me want to cradle her close and keep her safe.

“Ya pozabochus’ o tebe,” I whisper. “I’ll always take care of you.”

She makes a small sound, murmuring something against my chest that I can’t make out.

I put a fingertip beneath her chin and tilt her head back so I can look into her face.

“There is nothing to worry about,krasivaya,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”

“Aleksei,” she whispers, her voice small and broken. “It was him. I was there. He’s dead.” She makes a choking sound. “He’s dead.”

I stare at her silently, not sure how to respond to this. There’s no sense in denying what she says because it’s true. But anything I say to comfort her might only lead to more questions I can’t answer.

Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to hers. It’s a gentle kiss, almost chaste, but it sparks something between us— that same electric current that’s been there since the beginning. Her lips part on a sigh, and I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair to cradle the back of her head.

She responds immediately, her arms wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer. I can taste the salt of her tears, feel the warmth of her breath against my face. When I finally break the kiss, her eyes remain closed, her lips slightly parted.

“No more bad dreams,” I murmur against her mouth. “I’ll help you forget them.”

Her eyes open, searching mine. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she nods once, her fingers tightening in the fabric of my shirt.

I stand, pulling her with me, and begin to undress her with deliberate slowness. The oversized shirt she wears slides easily over her head, leaving her in just her nightdress. My breath catches at the sight of her— full breasts, the curve of her belly, the flush spreading across her skin.

“Ty krasivyy,” I tell her, meaning it completely. She’s never been more beautiful to me than she is like this, with my child in her belly and desire in her eyes.

“I need you,” she murmurs. She reaches for me then, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt with surprising dexterity. I let her undress me, watching her face as she revealsmore of my scarred, tattooed skin. There’s no disgust in her expression, only appreciation and growing need.

When we’re both naked, I guide her back onto the bed, arranging pillows to support her back and belly. Her hair fans out across my pillows like spilled ink, her skin pale against the dark sheets.

I take my time exploring her body, relearning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and writhe beneath my touch. The moonlight touches her skin, highlighting the flush that spreads across her breasts as my fingers trail between them. Her nipples have darkened during pregnancy, more sensitive now— when I brush my thumb across one, she bites her lip to stifle a moan.

“Don’t silence yourself,” I command softly. “I want to hear what I do to you,zaychik.”

I lower my mouth to her breast, circling her nipple with my tongue before drawing it between my lips. The sound she makes— half gasp, half sob— sends blood rushing to my cock, already hard against her thigh. Her body is different now, fuller, softer in some places, tighter in others. I explore these changes with my hands, memorizing this new landscape of the woman carrying my daughter.

“Yessss,” she gasps as my fingers drift down over her stomach, caressing the taut skin there before sliding lower, through the trimmed curls between her thighs. She’s already wet, her slick heat coating my fingers as I part her folds. I watch her face as I circle her clit, applying just enough pressure to make her hips buck against my hand.

“Blyad, you’re soaked for me,” I murmur, voice rough with need. “So fucking ready.”

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