Chapter 162 Chapter 162

Chapter 162 Chapter 162
He didn't move his hand from my stomach, but his gaze dropped to meet mine. "What?"
"You're suffocating me a little," I said quietly, keeping my tone soft, free of judgment. "You haven't slept. You haven't looked at the morning manifests. You're treating me like I'm made of glass."

"You aren't made of glass," he said, his eyes narrowing into tiny black points of absolute possession. "You're made of my entire life. And right now, something inside you is changing your body, taking your energy, and keeping your attention away from me." he said. The confession hung in the quiet, dim air of the bedroom, raw, dark, and unvarnished.

There was no pride in his voice, no corporate polish. It was the unfiltered instinct of a man who had lived his entire life in violence and isolation, who had found his anchor in me, and who was now paralyzed by the irrational fear that he was being displaced. I slid my hand up his chest, feeling the heavy, thunderous beat of his heart against my palm.

"It isn't taking my attention away from you, Nikolai," I whispered, holding his fierce, conflicted gaze. "I am sitting right here in your arms. My heart is beating right against yours."

"It's different," he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, dark vibration. His hand pressed a fraction deeper against my lower stomach, his fingers splayed wide over my skin. "Yesterday morning, when you looked at me, I was the only thing in your mind. Today... today you're thinking about this." he said.

"I am thinking about us," I corrected firmly, my eyes locked onto his. "This baby isn't an intruder, Nikolai. It isn't a rival for my love. It exists because of what we are to each other. It is your blood growing inside me." He remained silent for a long, heavy beat, his chest rising and falling in deep, measured cycles. His teeth ground together, the muscles in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

"I don't know how to be a father, Isla," he said, the admissions ripping out of him like dragged iron. "My father raised me to be an executioner. He taught me how to take territory, how to break men, and how to hold an empire with blood. He didn't teach me how to share the woman I love with a child."

"You don't have to share me, I don’t know how to be a mother either Nikolai" I said softly, reaching up to frame his face with both hands, my thumbs tracing the sharp angle of his cheekbones. "My love for you isn't a finite cup that gets drained when something new comes along. You are my husband. You are the Don of this family, and you are the only man who owns me. That will never change. Not in three months, not in nine months, not in fifty years."

He stared down at me, his eyes searching my face with an agonizing, intense scrutiny, looking for any trace of hesitation or doubt but he found none.
"You belong to me," he growled again, the words a sacred, possessive chant that he needed to speak aloud to keep his world anchored.
"I belong to you," I repeated smoothly, pulling his head down until his mouth was brushing against mine. "Entirely. Unconditionally."
He let out a low, rough sound deep in his throat and covered my mouth with his.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was dark, possessive, and thick with that fierce, unyielding devotion that defined every breath he took. He kissed me like a man claiming what was rightfully his, his hands coming around my back, pulling me so hard against his bare chest that I could feel every line of his rigid muscle. I opened my mouth to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, giving him total access, letting him feel the absolute reality of my surrender to him.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his eyes burning with a fierce, possessive warmth that had finally begun to push back the cold, irrational shadow of his jealousy. His hand drifted back down to my lower stomach, resting over my skin with a heavy, protective warmth that felt less like a cage and more like an iron shield. By noon, the quiet isolation of our suite was broken by a quiet knock at the door. Nikolai didn't move from the bed, but his voice echoed sharp and lethal through the heavy oak. "What?"

The door opened an inch, and Pedro stepped into the foyer of the suite, holding a small silver tray with two fresh espresso cups and a warm plate of Maria’s freshly baked biscotti. Behind him, Anabella was standing near the threshold, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. Nikolai’s posture immediately locked tight, his arm tightening around my waist as if he intended to physically block them from approaching the bed.

"Nikolai," I warned softly, tapping his wrist before sitting up slightly against the headboard. "Let them in." Pedro walked in with heavy, slow steps, setting the tray down on the marble console table near the fireplace. He looked at Nikolai, taking in his bare chest, his dark, defensive posture, and the heavy hand clamped over my stomach. Pedro’s sharp eyes softened with a deep, profound understanding.

"Alessio told me you doubled the cliff guards at four this morning," Pedro said smoothly, taking a seat in one of the leather armchairs near the hearth. "He said you canceled the London trip and ordered the entire  floor locked down." Nikolai glared at his father , his jaw rigid. "The security of this house is my responsibility."
"It is," Pedro agreed gently, leaning back and resting his hands over his knees. "But when I found out your mother was carrying you, thirty-five years ago... I did the exact same thing."

Nikolai blinked, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "What?" he asked. Pedro let out a low, gravelly chuckle, looking over at Anabella, who nodded fondly from the doorway.
"I put forty men on the Riverside perimeter," Pedro remembered, his voice rich with ancient history. "I refused to let her  go to the office. I thought every car on the road was a threat, every phone call was a setup, and every person who looked at her was trying to take something away from us."

Nikolai stayed silent, but the razor-sharp tension in his broad shoulders lowered by a fraction of an inch.

"It is the curse of the Ferro men," Pedro said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto Nikolai’s with absolute seriousness. "We spend our lives building walls out of iron and blood to keep the world out. So when something precious, something clean and purely ours, takes root inside the house, our instinct isn't just to protect it. Our instinct is to consume it, to lock it in a vault where no one else can ever see it."

Pedro stood up, walking slowly over to the edge of the bed. He looked down at me, offering a gentle, respectful bow of his head.