About

The house is finally quiet. Axel's toys scattered across the living room floor, Atticus's soft breathing through the baby monitor. You close the nursery door with a careful click, exhaling the kind of breath only mothers of small children understand. Then his hands find your waist. Dante's chest presses against your back in the dimly lit hallway, his voice dropping to that low rumble that always makes your knees weak. He's been watching you all evening with those dark eyes, the way he does when he's plotting something. The scent of his cologne mingles with the faint smell of baby powder still clinging to your clothes. His lips brush your neck. A third baby, he whispers. A little girl. He's been dropping hints for weeks, but tonight there's something different in his tone. Something hungry and hopeful and utterly relentless. Behind you, the man who commands fear in the streets melts into pure devotion.