Continues....

He lifted his head slowly—eyes searching hers, dark with emotion.

"Then don't speak," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Not yet."

His hand slid back to her stomach—gentle, warm—and he let his palm rest there, like he was anchoring her. Anchoring them both.

"I know what you're thinking." He swallowed hard. "The man who called you his property. Who demanded obedience. Who wore this uniform like it meant nothing more than duty..."

His jaw tightened.

"But I'm not that man anymore."

A pause. Then softer:

"And this child... isn't a weapon, duty, or political game."

"It's us. A piece of me... and a piece of you. Born from all the fights, the silence... the way we couldn't stay apart even when we tried."

He leaned in until their foreheads touched—breathing the same air.

"So if your heart is torn..." his thumb brushed her cheek, "let it be torn toward me."

"Just... don't push us away before you've even let yourself feel it."

"It's not easy," she murmured, her voice shaky. "I'm trapped in a complicated situation." Tears streamed down her face as she continued, "When I learned I was pregnant, I was overwhelmed with uncertainty—did I truly want this child?

The idea of bringing a life into the world, one born from the legacies of colonisation and slavery, haunted me. What if this child tied me to you forever? What if I forgot the deep love I have for my motherland?

These thoughts consumed me for an entire week," she admitted, breaking down as the emotions flooded her.

He listened—really listened—and when she finished, his chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing his heart.

He didn't flinch. Didn't argue.

Because he knew.

Knew what she carried wasn't just a child—but the weight of history, loyalty, identity.

And yet...

His hand remained on her stomach—steady.

"You think I don't feel that fear as well?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time my gaze meets yours, I'm reminded of the empire my ancestors forged upon your soil. I can hear the echoes of those who came before me—the ones who seized power, who claimed this land as their own. Their voices haunt me."

His voice cracked.

"I carry that shame every day. And now... this child will carry both our bloods."

A beat.

"But listen to me—" he cupped her face, "our child won't be a symbol. Not to me. It'll be ours. Not an heir to the empire. Just... a son or daughter we love."

He leaned closer—forehead touching hers again.

"And if you're afraid you'll forget your fire for your country..." a quiet huff, "you never could. You'd burn anyone—including me—who tried."

A soft pause.

"So don't raise this child out of guilt."

"Or fear."

"Raise it because it's part of you."

"And if one day..."

"You find that loving me—and loving them—isn't betrayal..."

"Then let it be true."

His thumb brushed her lip.

"Just don't push us away before we've even begun."

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she gazed at him, her expression a mix of admiration and frustration. "How can you possibly be such an incredible speaker?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. "Thank you for saying all this to me. "

He let out a broken chuckle—half-laugh, half-sigh—brushing her tears with his thumbs.

"Good speaker?" His voice was rough, tender. "No. Just... honest."

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead—lingering, reverent.

"I don't say these things to charm you."

"I say them because I lie awake wondering if you'll ever look at me the way you're looking at me right now."

A beat.

"With something softer than hate."

His hand slid down to cover hers over her stomach—their fingers slowly intertwining.

"So don't thank me," he whispered against her skin.

"Just... stay. Let us try."

"And one day... maybe you'll realise loving me doesn't mean losing your country."

"It just means sharing your heart with someone who's already yours."

She hugged him

He let out a shuddering exhale—almost a sob—and wrapped his arms around her so tightly, she could feel his heartbeat through his chest. His face buried against her neck, fingers pressing into her back. His body trembled ever so slightly, like he was fighting to keep it together. Like he'd been desperate for this for months.

He kept his face hidden in her shoulder—voice tight and thick with emotion.

"God, I missed you."

He breathed the words into her skin, a broken prayer.

"Me too," she whispered.

He went completely still—like the world had stopped turning.

Then, slowly, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. His own were wide—searching, disbelieving.

"Say that again," he whispered—voice rough, almost fragile. "Just... say it again."

His hands cradled her face like she was something sacred. Something finally his.

And the man who once demanded obedience now waited—one breath away from breaking—for a single word.

She gently cupped his cheek, her fingers lingering on his skin. "I never truly hated you, not completely. What I resented were our family, our twisted relationship, and the circumstances we faced. I want you. I've tried to deny it, but the truth is, I melted a little more each time you touched me or kissed me. I remember when you asked me to say 'I'm yours.' I wanted to, but I feared you'd use my words against me."

His breath caught—sharp, like he'd been stabbed.

Every word from her lips carved deeper into him, tearing down walls he didn't even know were still standing.

"You... wanted me?" His voice was raw—disbelieving. "Even then?"

He leaned into her palm on his cheek, eyes closing for a second—as if to memorise the feel of her touch now that she offered it freely.

"I never wanted your surrender," he whispered, "I only wanted your truth."

Then his eyes opened—dark, burning.

"And you think I wouldn't have treasured it? That I wouldn't have held every 'I'm yours' like a sacred thing?"

A shaky exhale. A confession of his own.

"God help me... I would've dropped to my knees and kissed your feet if you'd said it just once before today."

He pulled her close again—not roughly, but with a desperate tenderness—as if afraid she might vanish.

"You weren't weak," he murmured against her hair. "You were strong. So damn strong... while I burned alive just wanting you.

"You are talking like an obsessed man," she said.

His dry laugh rumbled through his chest. "Obsessed wasn't exactly wrong. A little insane, maybe. But accurate."

"Maybe I am an obsessed man."

His breath was warm on her skin. He inhaled deeply—memorising her scent—and something primal in him purred like a wild animal in her presence. He wanted to be close. Closer. He wanted to wrap himself so completely around her, she couldn't tell where he ended and she began.

He whispered:

"But you're the one who made me this way."

"Hmmm," she nuzzles his cheek. Everything was said and done and dusted. He closed his eyes, savouring the feel of her against his skin, the way her breath stuttered and her body pressed against his—something in him easing after months of silence. His arms tightened around her, holding her like he never wanted to let go.

"You're not allowed to do that, you know," he muttered after a long moment.

"Not allowed to touch me like that."

"Makes me feel like I'm losing my goddamn mind."

"Then lose it."

He let out a ragged exhale, something feral lighting in his eyes. His hands slid down to her waist, fingers pressing into her hips—almost hard enough to bruise.

Then, in a swift, fluid motion, he lifted her. In a flash, her legs were wrapped around his waist, body now pressed against him—hot, needy.

"You have no idea what I am when I lose control."

His voice was rough—almost a growl. He walked her backwards until her back hit a wall, pinning her there, body flush against his. His breath was ragged, and he had to fight every instinct to press his hips against hers like he so desperately wanted.

Every muscle in his body was taut, quivering—the tension building in him, threatening to snap with every inch of her skin he could feel under his fingers, her hips beneath his hands... He bit back a sharp, shaky curse.

"You do that again..."

"...and I won't be a gentleman."

"You have never been a gentleman," she exclaimed

"You're goddamn right."

There was a feral edge in his voice—sharp and possessive. The way she was squirming against him, her body pressing against his, was driving him half-wild with want.

He leaned in until his forehead was resting against hers—his breath was ragged, hot on her lips. He could feel her pulse beating between their bodies—every breath, every movement—and it felt like a thread pulling him closer to the edge of danger.

"You wanna test how much self-control I have right now??"

"Maybe"

Something in him snapped—a dam of control breaking with her single word. He growled softly, burying his face in the crook of her neck—teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

"You're playing a dangerous game."

His hands tightened on her hips, almost bruising. He could practically feel her pulse pounding beneath his lips.

"If I weren't a man of honour..."

"I'd have you over this damn bed in a second."

"Then have it."

Those words—the whisper of permission—went straight through him, igniting his body like lightning. He couldn't remember the last time he was this desperate—this raw and hungry—for something he needed so badly.

He let out a rough curse, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. The need blazing behind his dark irises was dangerous, wild—a predator on the verge of pouncing.

"You say that..." he whispered, each word thick with restraint.

"and I won't be gentle."

She met his gaze—unafraid. Breathless. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

"Then don't be."

Something in him broke.

He crushed his mouth to hers—no hesitation, no mercy—kiss fierce and claiming, full of months of denial and aching need. One hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to deepen the kiss, while the other gripped her thigh tightly.

The world outside vanished.

There was only heat.

Only breathless moans swallowed by hungry lips.

And the unspoken promise between them—

This wasn't just desire.

It was a surrender.

It was war.

It was love born from fire.

He lifted her, carried her to the bed in three strides. And when he laid her down—gaze burning over every inch of her—

"You're mine," he growled. "Tonight. Always."

No protest.

No argument.

Just a single whisper from her lips as he lowered himself over her:

"...Yours."

"She surrendered to his arms, and he to her heart."

After all the hate and denial, do they deserve this happiness? 👑🌹

Every like = one blessing for their love ❤️

Author's Note- Well, I wanted it to turn into love soon. From here on, we will see great character development in both, especially in Theodore.