Page 80 of Filthy Lies

The electric current between us morphs from frustration into raw need, a darker kind of intensity that makes my blood sing. His fingers trail up my arm, marking my skin with shivers that brand me as his.

“Careful,” I warn halfheartedly. “I just had a baby six weeks ago.”

“We don’t have to?—”

I silence him with a kiss, slow and deliberate. “I’m just saying be gentle. For now.”

His eyes darken. “I can be gentle.”

And he is. His hands explore my body with reverent care, rediscovering familiar curves now changed by motherhood. When he cups my breast, I can’t help but gasp—they’re tender still, sensitive in new ways.

“Too much?” he asks immediately.

“No.” I guide his hand, showing him what feels good. “Just… just different.”

We undress each other slowly, almost cautiously. For all the passion that’s always burned between us, this feels like something new.

Our naked bodies align, his much larger frame hovering above mine. I’m nervous suddenly, remembering the last time something was inside me—Sofiya clawing her way into the world while I lay on that filthy mattress.

Vince must see the flash of fear in my eyes, because he stops. “We can wait,” he offers. “There’s no rush.”

“No,” I say, wrapping my arms around his neck. “I need this. I need you.”

He takes his time, preparing me with gentle fingers until I’m arching against him, silently begging for more. When he finally pushes inside, the stretch is uncomfortable but welcome—a reclaiming of my body after all it’s been through.

“Okay?” he checks, holding perfectly still.

I nod, unable to form words. He begins to move. It’s nothing like our usual encounters—no dirty talk, no hair pulling, none of the rough passion that defined us before.

But somehow, this gentleness is exactly what I need. What we both need.

His forehead rests against mine, our breath mingling as we move together. I feel tears prick behind my eyelids.

“I love you,” I whisper. “So much it terrifies me sometimes.”

“I know.” His voice is rough as he grunts and grinds. “Me, too.”

We find our rhythm, two bodies speaking a language beyond words. When I come, it’s like a heat wave washing over me rather than the usual explosion. Not that it’s any less powerful—it still leaves me gasping against his shoulder.

He comes and then lies on top of me. I like the pressure of him, his scent, his hair, his bulk, his hand still cupping my hip.

Eventually, he rolls over to settle beside me, one arm draped possessively across my waist. “I’ll think about your proposal,” he says into my hair. “About building our own path.”

“That’s all I ask.” I leave a kiss on his chest, right over his heart.

His breathing gradually deepens as exhaustion claims him. I listen to the steady rhythm, counting each inhale and exhale like a prayer of gratitude.

But sleep still eludes me.

As I lie in the darkness, Vince’s heavy arm belted across my body, I can’t stop thinking about the impossible situation we’re in. Caught between my father and his. Between the law and the lawless. Between past and future.

But the longer I dwell on it, the more something else emerges. I wouldn’t call it certainty, but it’s something like that.

I am the daughter of Grigor Petrov. The wife of Vincent Akopov. I carry blood from one family and have pledged loyalty to another. My existence itself is a bridge between warring kingdoms.

Maybe that’s not just a liability.

Maybe it’s power.

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