Page 80 of The Enforcer's Vow
"And you?" I press gently.
"I used to think he was out there somewhere, that he'd come back when it was safe. But now..." She shakes her head, a bitter smile crossing her lips. "Now I think he's been dead for years, and I've been grieving a ghost."
I reach across the table and take her hand, my thumb stroking over her knuckles. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She turns her hand over, palm up, and threads our fingers together. "He gave me twelve years of feeling safe, of knowing I was loved. That's more than most people get in this world."
"Is that what you want? To feel safe?" I ask, genuinely curious about her answer.
She turns her hand over, palm up, and threads our fingers together. "I want to feel at home."
Home. Such a simple concept, but one that's been foreign to me for so long. I've had houses, apartments, places to sleep and eat and conduct business. But home? Home is something else entirely.
"I've never had that," I admit, my voice rough with unexpected emotion.
"What have you had?" she asks, her thumb tracing circles on my palm.
"Purpose. Orders. A place in the structure." I look out at the dark sea, waves catching the moonlight like scattered silver. "I was good at my job, and that was enough."
"Was it?" she challenges, her eyes never leaving my face.
I turn back to her, and I see understanding in her eyes. "No. Not anymore."
She brings my hand to her lips, kissing the backs of my fingers with a tenderness that makes my chest tighten. "Then we'll build it together."
"You want to build a home with me?" I ask, hardly daring to believe it.
"I want to build a life with you," she corrects, her voice firm with conviction. "A real one, where we don't have to look over our shoulders or wonder who's watching. Where our child can grow up knowing they're loved and protected."
"And if that's not possible?" I ask, because I need to know she understands the risks.
"Then we'll make it possible." There's steel in her voice now, the same strength that got her through counting dirty money and facing down armed men. "We'll find a way."
I stand and move around the table, offering her my hand. "Come with me."
She takes it, rising gracefully despite the changes in her body. I lead her away from the table, toward the villa's entrance. The interior is simple but elegant—white walls, blue accents, furniture that speaks of comfort rather than luxury. Moonlight streams through the windows, casting everything in silver and shadow. We climb the stairs to the bedroom, where gauze curtains blow in the evening breeze.
The bed is covered in soft white linens, inviting us closer. Rose petals are scattered across the coverlet, and candles burn on every surface, filling the room with warm, flickering light. Iturn to face her, and she's already reaching for the buttons of my shirt, her fingers working slowly, deliberately.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, my voice hoarse with want.
"So are you," she whispers back, her fingers spreading across my chest as she pushes the shirt from my shoulders.
I let her undress me piece by piece, her touch reverent and unhurried. When she's finished, I return the favor, sliding the straps of her dress off her shoulders and letting it pool at her feet. She stands before me in nothing but moonlight and shadows, and I'm struck by how perfect she is, how right this moment feels.
She's beautiful in the moonlight, all curves and shadows and golden skin. The swell of her belly is pronounced now, and I place my hands there, feeling the life growing beneath her skin. The baby kicks against my palm, and Zoya laughs softly, covering my hands with hers.
"I love you," I tell her, and the words feel strange on my tongue. I've never said them before her, not to anyone.
"I love you too," she whispers back, tears shining in her eyes, and I believe her.
I don’t move at first. I just look at her—bare and unguarded, standing in the flicker of candlelight with her hands on mine. Her skin is warm beneath my palms, her breath steady despite the emotion still swimming in her eyes. I lower my head and kiss her stomach, lips brushing the place where our child moves. She exhales softly, her fingers sliding through my hair.
I rise and meet her gaze again. She doesn’t flinch or look away. There’s no hesitation in her, no fear. Just quiet need and something deeper—trust.
I lift her gently, one arm beneath her legs, the other supporting her back. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and rests her head against my chest. I carry her to the bed and lower her onto the sheets, following her down. The mattress dipsbeneath our weight, but the world stays steady. For the first time in months, maybe longer, I feel grounded.
She reaches for me, and I press my mouth to hers. Her lips are soft, parted with anticipation, and I taste salt, wine, and her. She pulls me closer, and I let myself go.
