Page 122 of Single Mom's Daddies
Everything we’ve been fightingfor—bleeding for—comes into focus.
Her. A baby. Our family.
We undress her slowly, lips grazing the curve of her spine, her arms, her thighs. She’s already trembling. But we don’t rush. We might be a little slower than usual. None of us escaped that battle intact, save for Saffron.
Victor’s ribs look like he was in a car accident. His face too. But you wouldn’t know it to see how he is with her. Roman’s the same. The bullet went through his arm, and earlier he was pale from blood loss. But now? Now he’s just as much the predator as he’s always been.
We spread her out across the bed, limbs bare, eyes glassy. She’s all flushed skin and parted lips and breathy moans. Victor claims her mouth. Roman trails kisses across her belly. I kiss my way up her legs—worshiping each inch—until her hips lift and she gasps my name.
It nearly breaks me. “Open your legs for me.” They part, revealing everything. My craving doubles as my mouth waters from the sight of her, so exposed and wanting. “You’re glistening already, precious.”
“I need you,” she whispers, voice hoarse.
“You have us,” I say, and press my mouth to her heat.
She cries out, fingers clawing at the sheets. Victor cups her breast, tongue circling her nipple as she writhes. Roman kisses her neck, murmuring in Russian. She doesn’t need to know the words to understand the meaning.
She comes against my mouth, shuddering, crying out for God and then forus, the sound cracking open something inside me.
We flip her gently. I take her hips while they hold her torso, and together, we help her slide onto Roman first as she moans into Victor’s kiss. I kneel behind her, kissing the back of her neck, her shoulders, while Victor sucks marks into her throat. Roman takes her hips and fucks her slow, deliberate, like he’s imprinting her from the inside out.
When she comes again, Victor catches her mouth in his.
Then I press on the small of her back, bending her forward. There isn’t enough room, but we’ll make it work. I slick my shaft with lube to make sure I don’t hurt her, and then I enter her pussy next to Roman.
Fuck, the fit is insane.
She’s so wet and tight I nearly lose it the second I push inside. She arches between us, gasping my name. I set a brutal rhythm, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.
And then Victor slips between her lips. She takes him like a goddess—eager, hungry, moaning around him. Roman kisses her tits, whispering blessings into her skin. She takes us because she was made for us. I’m convinced of it now. Her smell, her taste, the feel of her with us, there’s nothing like it in the world.
She is ours. We are hers. Until the end of time.
Saffron comes again, shaking and screaming on Victor’s cock as she writhes between us. I feel it—that swift clench around my dick. Over and over while we keep going. Keep making her come. Sweat sparkles down her back, and I bite her shoulder as I pound into her. Her body jerks, goes rigid. A scream tears from her soul as she gushes on us. I lose my last shred of self-control and erupt with a growl, her skin still in my teeth. Roman’s roar follows, and Victor sighs as he finishes pumping into her mouth.
We all fell apart together.
When we’re done, we collapse into a tangled, boneless heap. Saffron in the center, heart pounding against ours. The last thing I remember is counting the freckles on her nose. I get to sixteen before drifting off.
The morning is quiet in a way I don’t trust. Soft birdsong from the tree line. No boots, no sirens, no barking orders. Just the smell of clean linen, fresh coffee from somewhere downstairs, and the faint hum of sunlight slipping between the curtains.
Saffron’s still asleep between us. Victor’s arm is draped over her waist, Roman’s breath is steady where his head rests on her thigh. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, not really thinking. Just…existing.
Everything about her feels imprinted on me now. Her scent, her warmth, her voice in my ear from last night—wrecked, breathless, mine.
There’s peace here, tangled in the blankets, sweat drying on skin, muscle aching in the best way. But I can’t stop listening. For a sound that shouldn’t be there. A door that opens too fast. A footstep that doesn’t belong.
That’s how it is now. Even in the quiet, I’m listening for war. It’ll go away eventually. I hope.
A knock at the door has me rolling out of bed, throwing on the first shirt I find, and padding barefoot through the house. Beneath the fresh coffee aroma, the hall smells like fresh polish and a hint of antiseptic from the med kits still tucked into the corners.
The back door is already cracked when I reach it. Aunt Olenna pushes it open wider, stepping in like she owns the floorboards. She does, in a way. She holds something in her hands—wooden, rectangular. Painted.
She holds it up without a word.
It’s a plaque. Hand-painted. Lacquered in a gloss finish with sky-blue and gold filigree curling over each corner. In the center, in bold Cyrillic script, is Ivy’s name. She hands it to me.
“I’ve made one for each of them,” she says, already gliding toward the kitchen. “Mila, Alex…now Ivy.”
