Alina was crying over a croissant.
Not because it tasted bad—no, Cassian had flown in the damn thing from Paris that morning—but because it was slightly too crisp on the edges and not "fluffy like clouds." She sat on the kitchen counter in one of Cassian's oversized black shirts, her legs bare and her hair a tangle of soft waves, mascara slightly smudged.
"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "It's just… why can't it be soft like my dreams, Cassian?"
He didn't laugh. Not even a smirk. Instead, he stood there in grey sweatpants and a plain white tee, arms crossed, a patient tilt to his head. "I'll personally burn every bakery in France until we find the one that makes cloud-soft croissants."
Alina let out a sound between a sob and a laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"And you," he said, stepping between her knees and brushing a thumb beneath her eye, "are terrifying with hormones. I mean that with love."
"I hate you."
"I know. You told me right after I massaged your feet and before demanding mangoes in December."
She let her head fall on his shoulder, and Cassian held her there, gently rocking her. He'd faced warlords, betrayal, gunfire—but nothing prepared him for her moods. She could go from seductive siren to a weepy child in minutes. And he handled it all with the same ruthless devotion that once made men fear his name.
Later that day, she demanded to go for a walk, despite the cold, claiming she needed "sunlight for the twins."
Cassian draped her in cashmere from head to toe, added his scarf and gloves, and still kept an arm wrapped tightly around her as they strolled along the icy lake outside their Russia estate.
She waddled slightly now—adorably swollen with their twins—and every time she pouted or rubbed her back, he kissed her temple or whispered, "You're doing perfectly, little flame."
She kicked snow at him. "Stop babying me."
"I'm literally babying the babies," he replied, deadpan.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're too smug."
He pulled her close. "And yet you still married me."
"Don't remind me. I was drugged by your cologne."
That night, she couldn't decide whether she wanted pickles, ice cream, or both. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed over her belly, scowling at the fridge like it had personally betrayed her.
Cassian walked in with a tray—pickles, strawberry ice cream, and a warm cinnamon bun.
"I love you," she whispered, dramatic.
"Mm. Not what you said two hours ago when I didn't let you eat raw sushi."
"That was Alina version hangry. She doesn't count."
He lifted her chin, pressing a kiss to her lips. "You always count. Even the crazy versions."
She curled against him, spooning ice cream onto the pickle and eating it like a gremlin. He didn't say a word. He just rubbed her back and murmured sweet nothings to her belly.
By bedtime, her back was sore, her ankles ached, and she wanted nothing more than to throw something at him for breathing too loudly.
Cassian ran a warm bath instead, filled it with lavender oil and floating rose petals. Then he lifted her in like she was made of glass and gently washed her hair.
"You're spoiling me," she muttered.
"No, I'm worshipping you," he corrected softly, fingers brushing along her swollen stomach. "You're growing my family, Alina. That's not something I take lightly."
Her eyes stung again—but this time with tenderness.
Later, tucked in bed and wrapped around her body like armor, Cassian waited until she was asleep before lifting the duvet and whispering softly to her belly.
"Behave for your mother, alright? No karate kicks to her ribs tonight."
His lips grazed the bump.
"She thinks I don't see it—how scared she is. But I know. I'm scared too."
Another kiss.
"But I'll burn down every shadow that tries to touch you three. I swear it."
His voice, low and gravelly with emotion, cracked as he rested his forehead against her skin.
"I never believed I could have this. You. Them. But I do. And I'm not letting it go."
Outside, the wind howled against the frost-laced windows. But inside, warmth bloomed between the chaos of moods, cravings, and exhaustion.
Cassian, once a king of fire and blood, now found his sanctuary in a storm of cravings and swollen ankles—and he wouldn't trade it for the world.