Page 162 of Twisted Vows

“I’ve got you.”

I don’t even care about the embarrassingly loud noise I make when he withdraws and then drives home.

For a second, my eyes sting. Six months ago, he said those same words in a warehouse while I was terrified and half-convinced I’d die. Here, in our bed, the words mean something else entirely.

He sets a slow, devastating rhythm with deliberate strokes that drag against every nerve ending and leave me gasping. His hand slides beneath my lower back to tilt my hips, and the change in angle makes my vision blur.

“There,” I manage. “Right there…don’t stop….”

He doesn’t. He rolls his hips in a way that steals language from me, his mouth at my throat, his hand moving between us to find the spot that makes my thighs shake.

“I can’t…” I start.

“Yes, you can.” As he has many times, he proves he knows my body better than I do.

I come apart around him with his name torn from my throat, my nails raking down his spine hard enough to mark him, my entire body arching up off the mattress. Seconds later, he follows, driving deep and shuddering apart with his face buried in my neck, my name broken and breathless in his mouth. This man only ever loses control when he’s with me.

Afterward, I lie against his chest and listen to his heartbeat calm.

His hand instinctively finds my belly in the dark, the way it always does now.

“She’s quiet tonight,” I murmur.

“Resting.” His thumb traces small patterns. “Smart girl.”

I press my lips to his collarbone and close my eyes.

Outside, the garden breathes. Inside, everything is warm and still and ours.

Morning finds us tangled together, light pooling across the sheets. His hand rests on my belly, his breathing even. Sleep has softened the lines of his face, and his silver hair gleams in the sunlight. The man once feared across continents now looks almost peaceful.

We chat about future plans. My school’s expansion. His new investors. Ordinary things. Beautifully ordinary things.

In the garden, beneath the wisteria, we discuss baby names. He argues for power. Luca if it’s a boy, Anya for a girl. I counter with gentleness. Aaron, Hope, Clara…something light enough to float. We compromise, of course. That’s what our love is now, a balance between strength and softness.

His hand moves in slow circles over my stomach, his touch protective and possessive.

“She’ll be fierce,” he says.

“And kind,” I add.

“She’ll be us.”

A warm, golden dusk falls over the estate. Lanterns flicker, and fireflies rise. I rest against his chest, listening to the rhythm—steady and alive—beneath my ear.

The world still hums with danger. Power still sleeps beneath the villa’s polished floors. But the air tonight smells of roses and renewal.

The baby kicks once, firm and certain. I laugh, whispering to her what peace feels like. Not perfect, but real. Messy. Beautiful. Earned.

Enzo tilts my chin and kisses me deeply. For one perfect moment, our story feels finished.

Then Enzo glances at a notification on his phone and frowns. “Let’s go check on Marco.”

I nod, already reaching for my jacket. We drive to the hospital in comfortable silence, his hand resting on my knee.

When we arrive, the hallway is quiet. Through the window of Marco’s room, I see her, the doctor from earlier, her dark hair loose now and a chart in her hands. She’s talking, and Marco’s watching her with a gentle expression I’ve never seen on him before. Not his usual charm. Not the cocky grin.

She looks up and catches him staring. Her composure flickers for just a second before the professional mask snaps back into place. But I saw that spark neither of them expected.