Smart girl. Brave girl. Terrified girl.
Night falls heavy. I finish my work in the study, signing away lives and laundering money. When I enter the bedroom, she is already there.
The lamp is off. The city bleeds blue through the windows, painting her skin in false twilight. She is on her side, facing the wall, the sheet pulled to her chin. But she is not asleep. I know her breathing now—the rhythm of her rest, the hitched cadence of feigning.
I undress. Shirt. Trousers. The gun goes in the safe. I slide beneath the sheets and fit myself behind her, my chest to her back, my knees tucked into the bend of hers. She is rigid. A board. A barrier.
She stays on her side, curled slightly away from me. The distance feels deliberate. I don't close it. Not yet.
The silence stretches, thick as winter fog off the harbor.
Then, in a small voice I barely recognize as hers:
"Do you still want to have sex with me?"
The question is a live grenade. I turn my head on the pillow. She's staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, waiting…
I almost laugh.She says the dumbest shit sometimes.
Instead of answering with words, I roll toward her. Pulling her against me until her body fits flush to mine. One hand finds her hip under the shirt. My palm slides up, slow and deliberate, cupping the weight of one breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it pebbles. She inhales sharply but doesn't pull away.
I press my mouth to the side of her neck, tasting clean skin and the faint trace of my own soap on her.
"Riley," I growl. "Shut up."
I peel the nightshirt off her slowly, with more care than I’ve ever given anything. My hands map every inch of her—shoulders, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips that already feels just the slightest bit softer. I drag my mouth along her shoulder, tracing the strap down with my teeth. Her breath catches. I hook my thumb under the waistband of her shorts and slide them down, slow, unhurried, letting the fabric scrape against her skin so she feels every inch of the descent.
When I settle between her thighs and taste her, she gasps a curse.Or a prayer?I take my time, licking and sucking until her legs shake and her fingers are twisted in my hair, until she comes with a broken sob.
Then I slide into her, slow and deep, one arm braced beside her head so I can watch her face. She never looks away. For once, she lets me see. Riley—open, trembling, taking every inch of me like she was made for it.
Later—how much later, I do not know—the room is fully dark. The city lights have dimmed. She is still awake.
I withdraw my hand from where it has been resting on her thigh. I turn her gently, arranging her on her back. She lets me. Her eyes are huge in the dark, reflecting the thin slice of moon through the window.
I lower my head. I press my lips to her stomach. Gliding my tongue over the flat skin that cradles our child. Then I rest my cheek there and begin to caress her belly with my palm. Slow circles. I nuzzle into her navel.
She is quiet for so long, I think she has fallen asleep. She breaks the silence.
"Are you happy?" she whispers.
I lift my head. Her eyes are open, watching me.
"Yes," I say. Surprising myself with the easy truth.
She swallows. Her hand comes up, hesitates, then settles in my hair. "Tell me why you want this."
I know what she is asking. Not the contract. Not the deal. The child.
I give her an easy answer. "It's time," I say.
She does not accept it. Her fingers tighten in my scalp. "No. That's not it. That's what men say when they don't want to explain. Tell me. Really, tell me."
I lift onto my elbow and study her face. I have thought about it. Asked myself, why? She's asking me to say my answers aloud. Answers, I'm still putting together even as she pulls them from me.
"I want a child to carry my name past the grave. To inherit what I bled for. I want… I want to build something that cannotbe shot, cannot be burned, cannot be taken by the FBI, or buried in concrete. I want an heir who makes the Ismailovs look like peasants." I stop. Start again. "I want to look at someone and see my own eyes looking back. I want to matter enough that someone remembers me when I am gone."
I exhale through my nose. My fingers press a little firmer against her skin, as if I could already feel the heartbeat beneath.
