Chapter 173 Chapter 173 Pillow Talk
My eyes flutter open slowly, heavy with sleep, and the first thing I see is Ivan.
He’s already awake.
Just watching me.
One arm is tucked beneath both pillows, propping him slightly, while the other is draped protectively over my son. Constantine is sleeping peacefully on Ivan’s bare chest, his small body rising and falling with each breath.
It’s the most endearing, most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen.
And it makes my chest ache—but not in the way I expect.
For a brief moment, I let myself imagine it—this. Waking up like this every morning. Constantine between us, safe, loved… until he’s too old to crawl into bed with us.
Us.
Oh my God… I said us.
The realization hits hard, heavier than anything else.
I still fucking love him.
Despite everything. Despite the lies, the cheating, the constant back-and-forth that’s left me raw more times than I can count—I still love him.
And admitting that, even just to myself, hurts more than anything else.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t love him. My feelings should be buried, dead, replaced with anger or indifference or something safer.
Something smarter.
I exhale slowly.
I give up.
Constantine stirs suddenly, jolting awake like he’s been shocked with electricity.
“Good morning, mamma!” he blurts out, already full of energy.
Before I can even react, his small hands cup my face, and he starts peppering kisses all over me—my cheeks, my forehead, my nose.
I laugh, squirming beneath him, trying to escape his relentless affection, but he’s stronger than he looks.
“Okay, okay—stop!” I giggle, breathless.
He finally pulls back, sitting up between us, his bright eyes bouncing from me to Ivan.
“Your turn, Dad!” he announces proudly. “Good morning kisses.”
Everything stops.
Ivan freezes.
And then it hits him.
Tears.
Actual tears spill down his face. This is the first time Constantine has called him Dad, and the weight of it crashes over him all at once.
The emotion in the room shifts instantly—thick, overwhelming.
I remember the first time Constantine called me mamma. I cried too.
Ivan pushes himself up slightly, bracing on his elbow, leaning in toward Constantine—but my son pulls back, laughing.
“Not me!” he says, his voice still thick with sleep. “Mamma!”
“Oh, no—” I start, already trying to protest, but it’s too late.
Ivan turns toward me.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.
“You can do better than that!” Constantine insists, completely serious.
I blink, stunned.
I don’t even know where he gets this from.
Actually, I do.
Gemma.
Watching her with Alek has clearly left a lasting impression on my child’s brain.
“Don’t you have chickens to check on?” I ask quickly, trying to redirect him before this spirals any further.
But the real reason?
I pull back from Ivan because he was about to lean in again.
And I know exactly what would’ve happened.
At the same time, I pull back from Ivan, because I know—I know—if he leans in any closer, if those soft, full lips touch mine, I’m done.
That—and this.
This illusion of domestic bliss.
It doesn’t even matter that he hasn’t really talked to me, not properly. Not about anything that matters.
I still want him.
I still crave the warmth of him, the weight of him beside me.
God, I’m pathetic.
Constantine pauses for a second, considering my question, and then he’s gone—sliding off the bed and sprinting out of the room at full speed. The door stays wide open, and I hear him dart into his room down the hall.
And just like that—
Silence.
Heavy. Immediate. Unavoidable.
I can’t stand it.
I feel this overwhelming need to fill it, to say something, anything. My lips part, but no words come out.
So instead, I do the next best thing.
I pull the sheet over my head and slide down off my pillow, hiding.
Ivan doesn’t let me.
His large hand reaches over, gripping the fabric, pulling it down until my face is exposed again.
His eyes lock onto mine.
“Will you ever be able to forgive me?” he asks, his voice low, rough, velvet-soft in a way that does naughty things to my insides.
“For what, Ivan?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
“Take your pick,” he says with a faint grin, but there’s nothing light about it. It’s sad. Heavy. “Everything.”
His tone shifts, more serious now.
“I don’t deserve any of this,” he continues. “I know I didn’t want him—not with her—but fuck… I’m glad he’s here. I’m so in love with him.”
He drags his hands over his face, like he’s trying to pull himself together.
“I can’t fucking believe her… asking you to adopt our child.”
He turns fully toward me, his hand coming up to cup my face gently.
“You’re a fucking saint,” he says quietly. “Taking care of my son. The son I made with her…”
Each word lands harder than the last.
Because I don’t think of Constantine that way.
He’s my son.
I was the one who changed his diapers, who stayed up with him when he was sick, who read him stories every night until he fell asleep. I taught him how to swim, how to speak, how to aim when he pees—which, honestly, was way harder than it should’ve been. Try teaching that without the right equipment.
I huff out a quiet laugh, trying to break the weight of it.
“It helps that he looks like a carbon copy of you,” I say. “There’s no trace of her that I can see.”
The laugh that follows is hollow. Forced.
There’s no real humor in it.
Before I can process anything else—
His lips are on mine.
Soft.
Unexpected.
And completely undoing me.
Ivan shifts under the sheet, moving closer, and my legs part for him without hesitation. I don’t even fight it.
I don’t want to.
He smiles against my mouth, his tongue slipping in, slow and familiar. His body presses into mine, his dick already hard, rubbing against me through the thin layers of fabric. I can feel myself reacting instantly, heat building, soaking through everything between us.
My hands move on their own, sliding over his back, tracing every muscle, pulling him closer.
Closer.
I’ve lost my mind.
Every ounce of self-preservation is gone.
Again.
I let him in.
I let him take up space in my heart, knowing exactly what he’s capable of. Knowing exactly how this could end.
I tell myself it’s the last time.
I swear it.
But even as I think it—
I know it’s a lie.
“What are you doing?”
Constantine’s voice cuts through everything.
We break apart instantly.
He’s standing in the middle of the room, fully dressed now, just watching us with curious eyes.
“Morning kisses?” Ivan says quickly, shifting off me like nothing happened.
“Okay!” Constantine replies, already turning toward the door—but then he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Can we go fishing after breakfast, Dad?”
Ivan’s face softens completely.
“Anything you want,” he says, smiling through fresh tears as he wipes them away.
I watch him, something twisting in my chest.
I think Constantine just broke him.