Chapter 8 - Whispers in the Nursery
One Month Later.
The morning sun streamed brightly through the large arched windows of our home in Gold Coast, Chicago. The heavy security forces that had once turned our life into an armed fortress were gone, replaced by a quiet, subtle security presence that operated discreetly in the background.
I stood in the center of the third-floor room that had once been an empty guest bedroom. Now, it was half-filled with pale green paint cans, soft plush rugs, and samples of wooden cribs.
A pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped gently around my waist from behind. Dorian rested his chin on my shoulder, his large hands resting possessively over my stomach, which had begun to show a tiny, soft curve.
"You should be resting, Mrs. Cross," Dorian murmured into my ear, pressing a tender kiss against my neck. "Dr. Mercer said light activity only."
"I'm just picking out the crib color, Mr. Cross," I laughed softly, leaning back into his solid chest. "And I feel wonderful. No nausea for two whole weeks."
Dorian smiled, his thumb stroking my belly through my soft sweater. "The dark walnut wood," he decided instantly, pointing to one of the samples on the table. "It's sturdy. Safe."
"You always pick the most fortress-like option," I teased, turning in his arms to face him.
He looked different now. The cold, haunting shadows beneath his eyes were completely gone. His face was relaxed, his dark eyes filled with an abiding warmth that seemed to grow deeper every single day.
"Can you blame me?" he asked softly, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes. "I almost lost you twice, Alina. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you and our child are safe, loved, and protected."
"I know you will," I whispered, reaching up to run my fingers through his dark hair. "I spoke to Marcus yesterday."
Dorian went still for a moment. "How is his daughter?"
"She's recovering well in therapy. Marcus wanted me to thank you... for paying her tuition and not pressing charges against him."
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Dorian sighed, resting his forehead against mine. "He was a desperate father trying to save his child. I understand that desperation now better than anyone."
I smiled, pulling him down into a deep, loving kiss. The painful memories of that dark law office six weeks ago, where I had vomited into a trash can while preparing to sign away our marriage, felt like a distant, bad dream.
