Page 107 of Pregnant Virgin of the Bratva
His hand comes to rest over hers. “You both saved me.”
We stand like that for a moment, the wind brushing through the grass, the roses nodding gently above us.
“She’s going to have a good life,” I whisper. “Not perfect, but good.”
He kisses me again, slower this time. Less teasing. I sink into it, shifting Liliana slightly in my arms, feeling the steady thrum of contentment that’s wrapped itself around us in this place.
His lips brush mine again—soft at first, patient, but it doesn’t stay soft.
It deepens quickly, like it always does with us. Like he’s been waiting for an excuse to remember how I taste. His hand comes up to cup the side of my face, the warmth of his palm grounding me. He pulls me closer, and I let him, even with Liliana heavy in my arms.
His mouth parts, coaxing mine open. The kiss shifts from sweet to something darker. Something familiar. His tongue slips against mine, slow and deliberate, and I feel the heat coil in my stomach the way it always has with him—sharp, immediate, impossible to ignore.
My fingers tighten against his shirt. He groans quietly, lips brushing against the corner of my mouth like he doesn’t want to stop.
“You’re dangerous,” I whisper.
He just grins, wicked and soft. “That’s your fault, sweetheart.”
I gasp a little, grinding against him.
“Not now,” he murmurs, stealing another kiss before pulling back just slightly, forehead pressed to mine. “Later.”
“Promise?”
His eyes flick down to my lips, then to our daughter’s sleeping face. “Count on it.”
He shifts his arms carefully, lifting Liliana from my hold and into his. She doesn’t stir much—just murmurs something soft and incomprehensible, her fingers tightening slightly against the collar of his shirt before relaxing again.
I follow them up the steps and through the open back door, back into the life we built one piece at a time.
Inside, the house hums with quiet warmth.
Sunlight pours through the tall windows and paints golden stripes across the kitchen floor. The scent of butter and sugar still lingers from breakfast, mixing with something floral that drifts in from the open windows. There’s a stack of folded laundry on one end of the couch, two board books abandoned beside it.
Liliana’s latest masterpiece—an orange and purple scribble that somehow required three markers and a full meltdown—hangs on the fridge beside a faded grocery list. Below it, three more pieces of paper, each messier than the last, flutter from crooked magnets. One has her name written over and over in my handwriting, slowly, carefully, until she could mimic the shape of the L all on her own.
Her handprints are still on the pantry door. Kion says we’ll repaint it eventually. I know we won’t.
I write again—finally.
In the mornings, when the house is still and quiet, I curl up with a pen and a notebook at the kitchen table or in the wide chair by the front window. Sometimes Kion reads beside me, his free hand brushing across my knee or resting at the small of my back. He doesn’t say much about the writing, but I see the wayhis eyes linger when I scribble into the margins or flip to a fresh page.
Sometimes, he reads aloud. Old poetry. Russian translations. Anything that catches his attention. His voice stays low and warm as it fills the space between us, wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed. My favorite place is still his lap, tucked into his chest with one leg thrown over his, the rise and fall of his breath a steady anchor beneath the words.
He sets Liliana in her crib just off the kitchen now, behind the baby gate and the half-drawn curtain. She turns onto her side the moment her head touches the mattress, one thumb sliding into her mouth before she lets out a tiny sigh and falls back into sleep.
He returns quietly. No heavy footsteps. No command in his posture. Just Kion, moving through his home like a man who knows what peace costs and is willing to protect it at any price.
I sit on the couch, one leg folded beneath me, and he joins me without asking.
His arm drapes behind my shoulders, and I lean into him easily. His other hand finds my thigh, rubbing slow, grounding circles through the fabric of my dress. We sit there like that for a while, the room filled with the soft hum of wind through the trees and the slow tick of the clock on the far wall.
He kisses my temple.
I close my eyes.
This is our life now.
