Page 56 of Crimson Curse
“I know,” I answer, kissing the shell of her ear. “I love you more than my own breath.”
We rock together, long, unhurried motions that keep us hovering on a tender edge. I trace circles around her clit with light, patient strokes until the pleasure swells again, quiet at first, then stronger as her body answers mine. I never stop whispering to her. She keeps saying my name like it is the only one she has ever needed. When she starts to tremble, I push deeper and hold there, the length of me pressed all the way in, and work her softly with my fingers until she falls again, smaller this time, but no less sweet. I follow a heartbeat later, buried in her, every muscle taut as the aftershocks roll through us.
When it passes, I ease out and gather her closer under the sheet. I kiss her shoulder, then the fine line of her spine, then the place between her shoulder blades where I like to rest my mouthwhen I don’t want to speak. She turns and tucks herself into me, one leg thrown over mine, and a hand on my chest as if she is claiming territory that has always been hers.
Her lashes lower. My fingers keep moving in her hair in slow, soothing strokes. She teases me still, her voice languid. “You’re so soft tonight.”
I let out a low growl, though it carries a smile. “If I am soft, it is only for you.”
She laughs, curling against me, her body warm and pliant, sleep tugging her down. Within minutes, her breathing steadies, and she is gone.
I stare at the ceiling long after, the flicker of the candles painting shadows on the walls. For years, I have lived with ghosts. Sasha. My mother. Every man I have killed. Every betrayal endured. They have haunted me, shaped me, and ruled me.
But tonight, with Naomi in my arms and our child safe within her, I feel something I never thought I would allow myself. Hope. I press my lips to her hair and whisper into the silence, my voice meant for no one but the night.
“No more ghosts. Just us.”
And for the first time, I believe it.
21
NAOMI
A month has passed since I became Mrs. Daniil Zorin, but it doesn't feel like an ordinary stretch of days. It feels like a lifetime squeezed into thirty nights, each one bringing me closer to the version of myself I hardly recognize in the mirror now. The nightmares still occur, but less often, and when they do come, Daniil's presence beside me in our bed chases them away faster than they used to linger.
I stand at the foot of the museum's marble steps, the air crisp. The building gleams like a rebirth. Fresh stone, polished windows, and banners unfurled with gold lettering that reads Grand Reopening of the Cultural Wing.
The crowd gathering before me is bigger than I expected. Museum patrons mingle with city council members, journalists, and photographers. A few professors I know from graduate school nod at me with warm smiles. The energy hums with anticipation as people position themselves for the best view.
I smooth a hand over the silk of my dress, a ritual that has become second nature over the past hour. The fabric is navy with a golden sash that sits perfectly beneath my ribs, chosencarefully to be professional yet celebratory. Charlotte insisted on the color coordination with the hint of gold to echo the foundation's branding. My hand lingers for a moment too long where the fabric curves over my growing stomach. Just enough of a swell now that no one can mistake it for anything but what it is. Life. New life growing inside me, a tiny heartbeat that mirrors my own.
The reality of it still catches me off guard at random moments. The morning sickness is getting better, replaced by a constant awareness of the changes in my body. Daniil notices everything about how I reach for crackers first thing in the morning, how I wear looser blouses, and how my hand rests on my belly when I'm thinking. He doesn't hover, but he's always watching and protective without smothering me.
Charlotte is beside me, sharp and stunning in a tailored blazer the color of midnight. Her blonde hair falls over one shoulder with pink-tipped ends. She has three phones in her hand with two assistants following her. The grin on her face tells me she's exactly where she wants to be.
“Smile, but not too wide,” she murmurs under her breath, adjusting the microphone clipped to my lapel. “Tilt your chin up just a fraction. Yes, that's the look we want. Elegant but approachable, confident but not cold.”
The exactness of her direction makes me want to laugh, but I suppress it, knowing she's absolutely right. Every detail of today has been choreographed to perfection, from the angle of the lighting to the placement of the photographers, to the exact words I'll use when I pull away the cloth covering the plaque.
“You're impossible,” I whisper back, grateful for her comforting presence.
“Effective,” she corrects with a wink that somehow manages to be playful yet professional. “Now remember, hold the pause after you pull the cloth. Let the moment breathe. These reporters live for theatrics, and we're giving them exactly what they need for tomorrow's headlines.”
The mayor approaches the podium, his aide trailing behind with a folder of prepared remarks. Mayor Harrison is a thin man in his sixties with silver hair and the kind of smile that comes from decades of public speaking. He taps the microphone twice, the sharp sound echoing across the plaza and drawing the crowd's attention.
His voice drones as he begins, extolling the partnership between the city and the foundation, praising the collaborative efforts that made this restoration possible, thanking various donors whose names I recognize from the guest list Charlotte compiled weeks ago. But my thoughts drift beyond his words, my gaze searching instinctively past the front rows where benefactors sit with polished smiles and expensive handbags clutched in manicured hands.
I scan the edges of the crowd, the spaces where shadows gather between the streetlights, the areas just outside the reach of cameras and attention. My pulse quickens as I search, a familiar tension building in my chest.
There. At the back of the plaza, just outside the wash of artificial light, Daniil stands. Tall and immovable as granite, dressed in a charcoal suit designed specifically for his broad shoulders. His dark hair reflects faint glints of light from the museum's exterior illumination, and though his expression appears neutral to anyone else, I can read the subtle signs that reveal his mood. The slight tension around his eyes means he's scanning for threats. The way his hands rest at his sides means he’s ready to move ifnecessary. The nearly imperceptible tilt of his head tells me he's listening to something in his earpiece, probably Lex providing updates on security perimeters.
The world might not notice him standing there in the shadows, but I do. I always do. Even in a crowd of hundreds, when he's deliberately positioned to remain invisible, my attention finds him like a compass needle finding true north.
My pulse steadies at the sight of him. He will not stand at my side on this stage. We both agreed that it would draw too much attention. Yet I feel him as though a tether runs between us, strong, sure, and unbreakable.
The mayor gestures toward me with a flourish, and the applause begins like thunder rolling across the plaza. Cameras lift in unison, and lenses focus with rehearsed synchronicity. Reporters shift forward, their pens poised over notebooks. I step up to the podium, my heels clicking against the stone as Charlotte slips back with a satisfied smile, her job as my handler complete.
The microphone is cool beneath my palm as I adjust it slightly, the metal warming under my touch. I take in the sea of faces before me. Strangers and allies, skeptics and patrons, journalists hungry for quotes, and benefactors eager to be associated with success. The energy is palpable, expectant, and for a moment, I'm transported back to graduate school presentations, to the nervous flutter in my stomach before defending my thesis. But this is different. This is mine.
