“What about me?” I ask.
His hand lifts, his fingers brushing over the curve of my jaw, slow, deliberate. His thumb drags softly over my lower lip, like he’s reminding himself he can.
His voice is low, rough, full of promise.
“I own what I see.”
He doesn’t make some grand declaration about his need to dote on me, to take care of me. But I already see it all the time.
The way he pulls out my chair before I can sit.
The way he makes sure I eat before he does.
The way he watches me, always, like he’s waiting for a reason to carry me straight to bed and make me rest.
And, apparently, the way he refuses to let me walk when we go down to the beach.
His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me effortlessly off the ground.
I let out a startled laugh, my hands clutching his shoulders.
"Ivan, I can walk."
He doesn’t even break stride.
"You’re not lifting a damn thing, printsessa."
I narrow my eyes, but he’s completely unbothered, carrying me as if I weigh nothing, his grip unrelenting.
"I’m pregnant, Ivan, not made of crystal."
His smirk is as lazy as it is infuriating.
"Same thing."
I huff, but secretly, I don’t mind. The truth is, I like it—being cared for like this, being wanted so fiercely that he can’t help but show it in every action, every touch, every little thing he does.
When he finally sets me down, it’s not just anywhere—it’s in his lap.
I try to move, but his arms cage me in, his heat solid and immovable behind me.
"Ivan—"
"Stay."
It’s not a request.
It never is.
I sigh but settle against him, letting myself sink into the warmth of his body, the familiar strength of his arms wrapped around me.
His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against my hip as we watch the sun sink into the ocean.
His lips brush softly against my temple, his breath warm against my skin.
I tilt my head, my fingers skimming his forearm, tracing over the scars there, the proof of everything we’ve been through.
And then, he kisses me.
His lips graze my jaw, my throat, making me shiver.
"You’re mine to spoil."
For so long, I believed peace was a lie. That safety was temporary, that love was just another word for vulnerability, for losing control, for handing someone the power to break me.
And yet, here I am. Whole. Safe. Loved.
I think about the man I met all those months ago—cold, relentless, untouchable. And I think about the man standing before me now—just as dangerous, just as formidable, but different now. Not soft. Not really.
Just soft for me.
