Page 92 of Dangerous King
Not a nineteen-year-old girl like me.
I glance down at his hand, sprawled across my stomach. So big. So warm. So certain.
His touch tells me I'm his.
But what if that's just for now?
A selfish, shameful thought slides through me: What happens if I let myself believe this could last? That he could reallychooseme, over tradition, over power, over the kind of woman who could make him stronger in the eyes of the world?
My throat tightens, guilt creeps in where euphoria used to be. I should be happy. And I am.But the more I fall for him—and I'm falling so hard I might never stop—the more afraid I am that this ends with me standing on the outside of his world, looking in with a broken heart that might never heal again.
As if my hand has a mind of its own, it moves to my middle. What if? What if I got pregnant last night? What if I am already carryinghischild? My fingers splay over my stomach, barely pressing, as if I could feel something already. Which I couldn't. I know that. Logically, it's impossible. But emotionally? Emotionally, I'm spiraling. What if there's a life inside me now? A new heartbeat forming because of last night?
I don't know what that would mean. Not fully. Not yet. I'm nineteen. I've never even been allowed to make choices about my own body, my own life—until recently. I'm just now starting to figure out who I am when I'm not a prisoner, a pawn, a bargaining chip.
A baby would change everything.
It would complicate things. It would rip away the pieces of normal I'm just beginning to taste—freedom, passion,possibility. I wouldn't get to be selfish, or scared, or young. I'd have to be strong. I'd have to be steady. I'd have to be the kind of mother I never really had. Yet…
Even now, even with all that fear pressing down on me, I know one thing with complete, bone-deep certainty: if I'm pregnant, I will protect it. No matter what. I'll fight for it. I'll love it with everything I have, even if I'm not ready, even if I have no idea what comes next. Because this child—if it exists—would be mine. Not a tool for someone else's power. Not a hostage. Not a weapon to be used. Mine.
Ours.
And that thought… it steadies me. Not because it would tie Enrico to me forever. I don't want him bound. I want him to choose me, see me. All of me. And still want more.
If this is temporary, I'll survive it. I've survived worse.
But if it's not?
If there's a future here—messy and real and terrifying—I want to be brave enough to reach for it. To believe I deserve it. Even if I'm still figuring out who I am without chains. Even if I'm terrified of the answer.
I shift gently, trying not to wake him. His arm tightens instinctively, pulling me closer.
"Not yet," he murmurs, still half-asleep. His voice is gravel and silk. "Stay with me, Piccolina."
The sound of that nickname—his voice, sleepy and possessive—melts something inside me. I press a kiss to the back of his hand and shut my eyes again.
Maybe I'll let myself pretend a little longer. For just a few more hours, I can believe that I belong here. With him. That won't hurt anyone, will it? In this bed, wrapped in Enrico's arms, I feel like I might finally be more than what was done to me. I feel like I could be somebody beautiful. Somebody who is more than I ever dreamed of being.
The world feels perfect for about two more minutes. Then Enrico's phone buzzes, vibrating insistently on the nightstand. He curses under his breath before untangling from me and reaching for it. I try not to stiffen when he sits up, when the warmth of his body disappears from my back.
"Give me a minute," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before getting up and striding into the bathroom, phone pressed to his ear. The door clicks shut behind him.
Just like that, the illusion breaks.
I stare at the ceiling, the morning quiet suddenly too loud. The space where he lay next to me is already cooling, and I hate that I notice. That I care so much. He said all those beautiful things. Did all those impossible things to my body. And I believed every word. But what if it was just that? One night. One perfect, borrowed dream.
Reality always catches up. Doesn't it?
I roll onto my side and immediately wish I hadn't. A sharp, unmistakable ache pulses through me, a soreness that makes me wince and flush all at once. I pull the covers back, and that's when I see it. The towel he must have tucked beneath me at some point in the night. The blood.
Hot shame floods me. I snatch the towel up and fold it over quickly, hiding the evidence even though he clearly alreadyknew. He saw it. Took care of it. But now, in the cold light of day, it feels like a spotlight shining on my inexperience. Like something I should apologize for.
I shove the towel into my small purse. It's not really stealing, is it? But I don't want the cleaning ladies to find it. But there is still a larger, now dried spot on the sheet. Before I have time to contemplate if it too would fit into my purse, the bathroom door opens. He's in nothing but a pair of black briefs, hair damp where he must've splashed his face, jaw tight from whatever call he just took.
His eyes land on me instantly. "I didn't mean to wake you. Just business."
I nod. "It's okay."
