I stare at the plastic stick. Two pink lines. My breath stops. My chest caves in. My hands tremble. I don’t move. I can’t. The world narrows to that thin white plastic. To the truth printed in bold, impossible letters.
He’s already in the doorway.
I don’t hear him come in. I don’t feel the shift in the air. But I know. I always know when he’s near. Like gravity. Like oxygen. Like the first gasp after drowning.
He crosses the room in three long strides. Boots silent on the hardwood. His hands are rough. Calloused from steel and leather and work. But they’re gentle when they rest on my waist. Pull me flush against his chest.
I close my eyes. Press my face to his sternum. Breathe him in. Whiskey. Musk. Sex. Home.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Dark. Shaking just enough to betray him. “You’re carrying my son.”
I nod. Can’t speak. My throat’s raw. My eyes burn. It’s real. Finally, terrifyingly real. The missed cycles. The nausea. The way his cock split me open that first night. The way I begged him to breed me. The way he never stopped.
He lifts my chin. His thumb brushes my lower lip. His eyes are black. Fierce. Possessive. Swallowing me whole.
“My girl,” he says. “My wife. My everything.”
He kisses me. Hard. Deep. His tongue claims my mouth. His hands slide down. Over my hips. Resting on my stomach. Claiming it like it’s his throne. His altar. His future.
“We’re keeping it,” he growls. Not a question. A vow carved in bone.
“Always,” I whisper.
He groans. Pulls me against his chest. I feel his heartbeat. Fast. Wild. Racing against my ribs.
“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he says. “Since the night I saw you. Singing. Dressed in red. Looking at me like I hung the moon.”
“I did,” I say.
He laughs. Low. Rich. The kind that vibrates through my sternum. “God, I’m a ruin. And you’re my salvation.”
He walks me to the couch. Guides me down. Kneels between my legs. His hands go to my belt. Unbuckle. Zip. Push down. He doesn’t rush. He never rushes when it’s just us. Just the truth. Just the beginning.
He pulls my panties down. My legs fall open. He stares. My pussy. Swollen. Damp. Ready. Always ready for him. Aching. Clenching. Missing him even though he’s right there.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Built for me. Made for my cock. My cum. My heir.”
I arch into his touch. His fingers slide inside. One. Two. Stretching me. Filling me. I gasp. Back bows. He’s already hard. I can feel the thick ridge pressing against my inner thigh.
“I need you,” I say. “Now. Please.”
He lifts me. Carries me to the bedroom. Drops me on the mattress. Kicks off his shoes. Rips his shirt open. Buttons fly. He doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.
He drops to his knees. Again. Always. His mouth finds my slit. Licks. Sucks. Tastes. I cry out. Back arches. Fingers tangle in his hair.
“Daddy,” I moan. “Fuck me. Please.”
He pulls back. Eyes blazing. “You know I will. You know I always will.”
He lines up. Heads down. His cock slides into me. Thick. Scalding. Perfect. I take every inch. Moan his name. Clench around him.
He groans. Throaty. Raw. “God, you’re so tight. So wet. My perfect girl. My breeding doll.”
He sets the pace. Slow at first. Deep. Deliberate. Then harder. Faster. The bed frames shakes. My nails rake his shoulders. He doesn’t flinch. Just drives in. Deeper. Hitting my cervix. Hitting my womb. Hitting the little life growing inside us.
“Feel that?” he grits out. “Feel me breeding you. Claiming you. Marking you for life.”
I nod. Tears in my eyes. “Yes. Daddy. Yes.”
He grabs my hips. Holds me down. Fucks me like he’s trying to fuse us together. Like he’s carving his name into my bones. I come. Hard. Shaking. Clamping down on his cock. He growls. Drums into me. Hides his face in my neck.
“I’m cumming,” he rasps. “All of it. Right in you. Right where it belongs.”
He drives in deep. Holds himself there. Pulsing. Hot. Thick. My pussy drinks him in. Swallows every drop. We stay like that. Chest to chest. Heart to heart. Breathing each other in.
Later. Clean. Wrapped in his arms. He traces my belly. Still flat. Still hiding our secret.
“I’m renaming the place,” he says.
I blink. “The bar?”
“The whole fucking place.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Jessa’s. Or Kane’s Jessa. Doesn’t matter. The sign’s going up tomorrow.”
I stare at him. “You’re giving me your bar.”
“I’m giving you our home.” He cups my face. “Every time I walk through those doors, I’ll see you. In my mind. In my heart. In my blood.”
I cry. He wipes my tears. Licks my lips. Smells like whiskey and sex and me.
“You turned my whole life into a love song,” he whispers. “Sang me into existence. Made me believe in forever. I’ll sing it every night. To you. To our baby. To this life we built.”
I melt. “I’ll listen.”
“You won’t have to,” he says. “I’ll make sure you hear it. Through the walls. Through the bass. Through my throat every time I step on that stage.”
We move into the penthouse above the club. His. Now ours. Floor to windows. City lights below. Our kingdom.
He buys me a soundproof studio. Sets up a mic. A piano. A couch that drinks my body.
Every night. After dinner. After I rub cream on my stretching skin. After I watch my belly grow round. He sits beside me. Hands on my stomach. Microphone in his other hand.
He starts slow. Acoustic. Raw. No polish. Just him. And me. And our future.
*“You walked in like a storm in heels… turned my dark world into something real…”*
I close my eyes. Listen. My baby kicks. He feels it. Smiles. Keeps singing.
He sings about the first time he touched me. About how I fit between his thighs like I was carved for him. About how he prayed to God I’d let him breed me. About how he’d die before anything harmed us.
*“You turned my whole life into a love song…”* he croons. *“Now I’m singing it to you. To us. To our little miracle.”*
I place my hand over his. Feel the vibration. Feel the life. Feel the weight of it all.
“Again,” I whisper.
He never says no.
Months pass. My belly swells. My hips widen. My nipples darken. My skin glows. He worships every change. Every stretch mark. Every kick. Every heartbeat.
The club thrives. But he barely goes on stage. Says the real show’s at home. On our bed. In our kitchen. In my arms as I carry his heir.
He writes the album. No title. Just a picture of my ultrasound. A single line on the back: *For Jessa. And the life we made.*
It breaks the charts. Critics call it raw. Visceral. Beautiful.
He calls it a lullaby.
Delivery day. I’m in labor. He’s by my side. Knuckles white. Eyes red. But calm. Steady.
“Breathe,” he tells me. “I’ve got you. Always.”
I push. Scream. Break. He holds my hand. Kisses my sweat-damp hair. Whispers in my ear.
“Look at you. Look at what you made. Our son. Our miracle. Your Daddy’s boy.”
The cry echoes. Sharp. Strong. Healthy.
He sobs. Actually sobs. Cuts the cord. Holds him. Presses him to my chest.
“Say hello to your brother,” he whispers. “He’s been waiting. Praying. Dreaming of you.”
I look at the baby. Dark hair. My eyes. His jaw. My heart.
“Hi,” I whisper. “We’re so glad you’re here.”
He leans over. Kisses my forehead. Kisses the baby’s head. Kisses my lips.
“We’re home,” he says.
I believe him.
We are.
Every night after that. When the little one sleeps. When the city hums. He sits by the crib. Or on our bed. Or in the studio.
He sings.
*“You turned my whole life into a love song…”*
His voice is rough. Tired. Perfect.
My baby stirs. Whimpers. I scoop him up. Rock him. He keeps singing.
I watch him. This man. My Daddy. My alpha. My husband. My forever.
He looks up. Smiles. Eyes soft. Dark. Full.
“Your turn,” he says.
I shake my head. “I like listening.”
He stands. Carries our son to the bassinet. Covers him with a blanket. Returns to me. Pulls me against his chest.
“I’ll sing it forever,” he promises. “Until the day I die. Until the day I’m reborn. You’re my song, Jessa. My only one. My always.”
I nestle into him. Listen to his heartbeat. Feel our son’s kick. Feel the truth of it.
No more waiting. No more wanting. No more running.
Just us.
Breeding.
Building.
Belonging.
HEA.
I close my eyes.
He keeps singing.
And I’m finally, completely, home.