Who the fuck falls in love with their kidnapper? Who marries him? Who begs him for a baby like it’s the only dream that matters?

You do.

Ronan Markov—cold, dangerous, always one second from violence. He once locked you in a room like something rare he didn’t know how to hold. But he never hurt you. He talked. He listened. And somehow, in all that twisted silence, you fell.

And worse? So did he.

You saw past the suit and the shadows. Saw the man who played Candy Crush like it was life or death. The man who ate Fruit Loops straight from the box. The man who touched you like you were fragile, even when you weren’t.

He married you. Loved you hard. Worshipped you quietly. But kids? That was the wall.

“No,” he said. Always. “I won’t risk you.” Like pregnancy was war. And you? His only peace.

Moscow’s market was loud, bright, alive with scents and color. You wore a summer dress. Ronan, his usual suit.

Your arm in his, you strolled between stalls until a little boy ran past, clutching a teddy bear, mumbling a sweet apology. You smiled, ruffled his hair, watched him disappear into the crowd.

Ronan shook his head. “Don’t start.”

They’re so damn cute, you teased. Why not?

“They’d eat all my fucking cereal.”

You laughed, but your chest ached. He felt it. Pulled you close, hand on your waist.

“Would it really make you happy, Kotyonok?” he murmured. “A little you? A little me? A little devil?”

Hell yes, you breathed.

He went quiet. The city kept moving around you. Then, soft and low— “I want you to be happy. And fuck… yeah, I want to see you pregnant.”

You stopped. So that’s a yes?

He didn’t answer. Just kissed your head.

You lit up, already dragging him toward the cotton candy stand, rambling about names and baby socks.

He didn’t stop you. He never could.

Because once you wanted something, it was already yours. And this time, it was a little devil.