Page 132 of Secret Heir

We sit in silence for a moment. Then I feel it—a flutter low in my belly. It’s stronger than before. The baby moving, reminding me that life continues even in the midst of all this death and fear.

I gasp softly, my palm flying to my stomach. Maksim must realize what’s happening and his hand covers mine before it slides to rest on my stomach. I’m showing significantly now at nearly twenty weeks, the bump unmistakable and round under my dress. His palm is warm against the fabric as he strains, hoping to feel the baby.

I smile softly at him. “It’s still too early for you to feel them,” I say. “Right now it just feels like little bubbles. Give it a few weeks and you’ll be able to feel him or her.”

Maksim looks slightly disappointed and my heart goes out to him. I know how badly he wants to feel our baby.

I cover his hand with mine. “Dr. Petrov says everything looks good. Despite everything that’s happened, the baby is healthy and growing right on schedule.”

“Good.” His hand stays on my stomach. “I need all of you to be okay. You, Daniel, this baby. My whole family.”

“We will be.” I turn to look at him, and what I see in his eyes makes my breath catch. Love. Fierce, protective, love mixed with fear and determination. “We’re all going to be okay as soon as Alexander is dead.”

“He will be.” Maksim’s voice is deadly. “I promise you that.”

I turn more fully toward him, and what I see in his eyes makes something shift inside me. We’ve been so focused on Daniel that we’ve barely touched in what feels like forever.

But now, looking at him—at the exhaustion in his face, the pain in his eyes, and the stubborn love that keeps him fighting even when his body is hurting—I feel desire pool low in my belly.

“I want you,” I whisper. “I need to feel something other than fear and rage.”

“Aria—” There’s concern in his voice.

“Please.” I’m already reaching for him, my hands on his chest. “I need you. I need to feel connected to you. I need to remember that we still have each other.”

He doesn’t need more convincing. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is desperate and hungry, full of days of pent-up fear and need.

But now, after watching our son nearly die and knowing he’s physically on the mend, we need this. We need to remember we’re fighting for us too.

Maksim stands, lifting me in his arms despite his still-healing ribs. I hear his sharp intake of breath, and he bites back a groan of pain.

My heart skips a beat. “Your ribs,” I point out, but he bats a hand in irritation.

“Don’t care.” He’s already carrying me toward the bedroom. “Need you. Need this.”

I wrap my legs around his waist as much as my growing belly allows, and he carries me to the bed. He sets me down gently, like I’m made of glass. His hands are already working at the buttons of my dress, but they’re shaking slightly.

“I’m scared I’ll hurt you,” he admits, his voice rough. “Your body’s been through so much stress.”

“You won’t hurt me.” I help him with the buttons then pull the dress over my head.

He strips off his own clothes, moving carefully because of his ribs, and I see the full extent of his injuries. The bruising has faded but is still visible, sickly yellow-green across his entire left side. There are still bandages on some of the deeper cuts from the shrapnel.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell him, and I mean it. Every scar, every bruise, every mark of pain is proof that he survived.

He snorts. “That’s my line to you.” But he’s crawling over me on the bed now, his body covering mine but careful not to press down on my stomach. I kiss his jaw.

“You’re alive. You’re here,” I tell him, carding my fingers through his hair. “That makes you beautiful to me.”

He kisses me again, slower this time. His hands are gentle as they trace the curve of my belly.

“You’re so beautiful like this.” His hands are reverent on my skin. “Even more beautiful pregnant and carrying our child. Giving me another baby to love.”

“Still don’t want to know about the baby’s gender?” I ask him, threading my fingers through his hair.

“I don’t care.” He kisses my stomach. “Boy or girl, they’re ours. I will love them no matter who or what they are.”

His mouth trails up from my stomach to my breasts. When his lips close around one nipple, I gasp, my back arching off the bed.