Page 18 of Crystal Veil

The words tear from my throat. The baby monitor beside the crib picks up the sound, its red light blinking like a warning beacon. In a few months, that device will carry the sounds of our child sleeping, breathing, living. The thought of Elena risking all of that for a story makes my vision blur with rage.

Her eyes narrow to slits, and I recognize the expression. It's the same look she wore the night she first confronted me about my business, the night she refused to be intimidated by my reputation or my threats. “Don't you dare use this baby as a shield.”

“It's not a shield, it's a reason!” The words explode from me before I can stop them.

She pushes away from the crib, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulls my shirt tight across her small baby bump. For a moment, I'm distracted by the visible proof of what we've created together. Our child. Our future. Everything I never thought I wanted and now can't imagine living without.

“You think this is just about you and your revenge plan? Well, I've watched from the sidelines long enough. I've been the target. I've bled for this.” Her voice rises with each word, passion and fury mixing in equal measure. “Don't ask me to sit quietly while the people who tried to kill us walk free.”

The memory floods back. The day when Bennato's woman found us, when I thought I'd lost her forever. The way she looked so small and fragile in that hospital bed, machines beeping around her like a mechanical lullaby. I'd made promises to God that night, bargains I'm not sure I can keep.

“You're not a soldier, Elena. You're not a pawn in this game.” My voice cracks on the last word.

She takes a step toward me, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. “Then stop treating me like one.”

The room crackles with tension. “I can't protect you if you keep doing this,” I admit, my voice raw now with everything I've been holding back. “I've buried too many people, Elena. I will not bury you.”

The words leave my lips like a confession. I think of my father's funeral, the casket on my shoulders as I carried him to his final rest. I think of the men I've lost over the years, soldiers who followed my orders into battles they didn't come home from. I think of my mother, buried before I was old enough to remember her face.

Her chin trembles, but she holds her ground. The strength in her small frame amazes me. She's barely over five and a half feet tall, but she faces down a man who's built an empire on fear and violence without backing down. “Then tell me why. Why does it matter so much to you?”

The question carves straight through me, cutting past every defense I've built over thirty-five years of survival.

“Why?” she presses, stepping closer. Her scent reaches me now, that mixture of jasmine and sea salt that's become as familiar as my own heartbeat. “Because it's dangerous? Because you want control? Or because you can't stand the idea of someone else finishing what you started?”

Each question lands like a fist to the sternum, stealing more breath than I can spare. She sees through every excuse, every rational argument I could make. She knows me better than anyone ever has, better than I know myself sometimes.

I step toward her, one stride, then another, until there's barely any space between us. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the same eyes she inherited from her mother. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin.

“Because I love you.”

The words rip from my chest before I can stop them, tearing through decades of careful control. In my world, love is a weakness. Love gets you killed. Love makes you vulnerable in ways that bullets and betrayal never can.

She freezes.

The air around us collapses, humming with the truth of what I’ve just admitted. I see it in her eyes, the shock and uncertainty. My heart hammers like I've just given away my most dangerous secret. Maybe I have. In the Bratva, admitting you love someone is painting a target on their back, giving your enemies the perfect weapon to use against you.

“You what?” she whispers.

“I love you, Elena.” My voice is lower now, rougher. A confession, a vow, and a surrender. “I've never said those words to anyone, and I'm not repeating them if you don't want to hear them. But it's the truth. I love you, and I don't know how to stop.”

The admission feels like stepping off a cliff. For thirty-five years, I've lived by my father's rules: trust no one completely, show no weakness, never give anyone the power to destroy you. But Elena already has that power. She’s had it since the moment she walked into my life with her questions, courage, and complete refusal to be intimidated.

Tears well in her eyes, making them shine like dark mirrors. She bites her bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough that I want to soothe the hurt with my mouth. The gesture is so familiar, so perfectly Elena, that my heart hurts with the force of what I feel for her.

Then she speaks, so softly it nearly breaks me. “I love you, too.”

Whatever restraint I have left shatters like glass against concrete. I reach for her, and she's in my arms before I can think about what comes next. Her mouth finds mine with the hunger of everything we've been denying, everything we've been too afraid to acknowledge.

There's no hesitation. No space for doubt or fear or the rational voice that warns me this is dangerous. Just heat, desperate need, and the taste of her on my lips.

I back her toward the wall, my hands moving to her waist, feeling the changes pregnancy has brought to her body. She's fuller now, softer in some places, but still strong and perfectly Elena. My palms slide to her thighs, then up to curve around her spine. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging me closer as her body molds to mine like she was made to fit against me.

I lift her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around my waist. She weighs nothing in my arms, this woman who carries my child and my heart. The wall is cold against her back, but I warm her with every kiss, every stroke, and every breath that mingles with hers.

Her shirt is the first to go, its buttons ripped free and flung aside without ceremony. My lips trail down the column of her throat, tasting salt and need and the faint sweetness of her perfume.Her moan is the only sound I want to hear, better than any music, more beautiful than any prayer.

I pull her jeans off, dropping them in a puddle on the floor. My hands slide over her skin, palms firm against her thighs, feeling the softness of her skin and the way she trembles under my touch. I feel the heat of her through the thin lace of her underwear, feel her hips arch into my touch with a need that matches my own.