Page 70 of Cage the Storm
“Arms up,” he says, quieter now.
I lift them, and he tugs the dress over my head. The room spins for a heartbeat, but his palm steadies my shoulder. “Easy.”
The bra clasp comes next. His knuckles brush my back, and I freeze, not from pain but from the intimacy of it.
“It’s just me,” he says, like that explains everything.
He hands me one of his old cotton shirts, knowing it’s my preferred sleepwear. I pull it on, the hem drowning my thighs. When his fingers hook the waistband of my panties, I tense.
“Nico,” I whimper.
“Relax. I’ve seen it all before.”
“Not like this.” His gaze meets mine.
“Especially like this.” He’s gentle when he tugs them down, and I lift my hips just enough for him to toss them aside.
When he finally looks at me, a spark of emotion twists across his face. Like he’s just now noticing the dark circles, the way my hands instinctively cradle my stomach.
“You’re shaking again,” he says.
“Adrenaline crash.”
He hums, unconvinced, and retrieves a glass of water from the nightstand. He then presses it into my hands. “Drink.”
I obey, gulping until he takes the glass back. “Happy?”
“Getting there.”
He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm, damp cloth to wipe the makeup from my face. “You’re awfully domestic tonight,” I mutter.
“Don’t get used to it.”
When he’s done, he pulls back the duvet. I slide under it, the sheets like ice. He strips down to nothing and folds himself around me. His chest pressed against my back with his hand splayed over my stomach.
“You’re hovering,” I say.
“You’re mine.” His lips brush my shoulder. “Let me enjoy it.”
The baby kicks, as if protesting the noise. Then, slowly, his thumb strokes the spot.
I wait for the fear, the doubt. Instead, sleep drags me under to the rhythm of his breath and the touch of his palm. My anchor in the storm.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
NICOLAI
I knowshe’s sound asleep when her breathing slows. So, I don’t dare move. The second I do, she’ll wake. And she needs her rest. Tonight, we’re just two people in bed and not a couple who can’t keep their hands off one another.
She’s smaller like this. Her skin’s still cool under my palm, stretched taut over the swell of our child. Another kick echoes against my hand, insistent. I’m here,il mio piccolo.My little one.
Closing my eyes, I realize my bedroom, our room, smells like her now: vanilla and spice, a combination that’s alluring and perfect for Luna. Her makeup’s gone. She doesn’t need to wear anything, but I understand. It’s what she was taught to do, so she’d be accepted into society. It sickens me to know that our world places too much emphasis on appearances and not on someone’s inner beauty.
When I carried her inside, I felt her fire dim with every step. Scared the fuck out of me. Luna doesn’t bend. She’s built to survive. But tonight, she let me strip away the armor—her dress, her pride, the lie that she doesn’t need anyone. And she did it knowing sex wasn’t on the table.
She didn’t fight me. Not with words, just silence and trust. That’s what wrecked me the most. Not the way she trembled. Not the way she held on. But the way she let go.
Luna mutters something in her sleep, a half-formed curse, and my arm tightens around her. Mine. The thought is feral, automatic. But it’s not just possession. It’s the goddamn terror that one day I’ll hold her like this and find her gone cold. That the world will take what’s mine because I wasn’t vigilant enough. I wasn’t enough. Period.
