Chapter 209: The Promise

*Runze’s POV*

When my eyes open, the bedroom is bathed in the soft, muted silver of early dawn.

I don’t move. I *can’t* move.

I’m completely encased in Bael’s warmth. His arm is still locked firmly around my waist, his long fingers resting over the rise of my bump, protecting it even in his sleep. My head is pillowed directly on his shoulder, my face tucked into the crook of his neck.

I tilt my head back just enough to look at him.

His features are soft in the morning light. The sharp, guarded line of his jaw is relaxed, his dark lashes resting flat against his cheekbones. He looks peaceful. Handsome. So close that the warm air leaving his lips brushes softly against my forehead.

Looking at him like this... my chest tightens.

Logically, I know the timing is completely wrong. We barely survived last night. The hurt from those unread proposals hasn’t magically disappeared. What happened between us is still there, sitting quietly between us, and there are still so many things left unsaid.

Yet, as I stare at his lips, a deep, persistent ache settles in the pit of my stomach, making my vision swim.

I want him.

My mind flashes back to yesterday—to the memory of being pinned against his desk in his private office, and the teasing text message he sent me afterward, warning me not to give Ling Yue a room on our floor unless I wanted him to hear what Bael planned to do to me at night.

Last night, after everything fell apart, I was certain neither of us would even remember that text.

Yet here I am, just a few hours later, aching for him so badly it hurts.

A sudden, dizzying warmth rushes beneath my skin. My face flushes, and a slick dampness begins to slowly leak between my thighs, soaking into the soft cotton of my sleepwear.

*Could this be heat...?*

I freeze at the thought. In our world, an pregnant omega can still experience heat if they go too long without being thoroughly claimed by their Alpha. But as I pay attention to the slow throb in my lower body, I realize it’s not the frantic, burning madness of a true heat. It’s not intense enough for that.

This isn’t heat.

Heat would be easier. Heat wouldn’t make me feel guilty for wanting him after everything that happened.

This is me... wanting my husband.

My chest heaves softly. I swallow past the dryness in my throat and whisper, barely making a sound:

"...Bael..."

No response. The steady, slow rise and fall of his chest doesn’t break.

He’s still fast asleep.

Unable to help myself, I lean up slightly and press my lips against his collarbone, kissing the bare skin above his shirt.

A low, faint hum vibrates deep in Bael’s chest, but he doesn’t stir.

I lift my head to check his face. His eyes remain shut, his expression unchanged.

Taking a small, unsteady breath, I attempt to move his weight off me without startling him. His palm is still around my stomach, so I work slowly, my breath hitching as I use my free hand to reach for the buttons of his sleep shirt.

The first button, then another. My fingers shake so badly I miss the third one the first time.

I bite my lower lip hard, my breathing turning ragged in the quiet room. When the shirt falls open, I place my palm flat against his bare chest, soaking in the immediate, searing heat of his skin.

Beneath my hand, that familiar heart thuds steadily.

I lean down again, kissing the center of his chest.

Bael’s breath hitches slightly, the rhythm breaking beneath my palm.

Driven by a shameless wave of desire, I press my mouth closer, sucking gently on his smooth chest skin, breathing in the rich, dark scent of his pheromones. I trace a line of desperate, needy kisses up his body, following the line of his throat until I reach the side of his neck.

I drag my tongue over the pulse point at his neck.

Bael’s entire body shivers under me. A visible tremor runs through his shoulders, but I don’t stop.

My other hand slides down to my own chest. Through the thin pajamas, my nipples are swollen and agonizingly sore—they’ve felt sensitive for days now, aching for attention. I touch myself through the fabric, rubbing lightly, but the sensation yields nothing.

My own touch does nothing to cool the fire.

"...Not enough," I murmur against his neck, my voice thick with frustration.

I need his hands. Only his hands.

Grabbing Bael’s wrist—the hand that was resting over my bump—I pull his palm upward, guiding his long fingers until they graze over my sensitive, fabric-covered peak.

The mere touch of his skin against mine sends an electric shock straight to my core.

"Nngh..." A high, helpless moan escapes my throat instantly.

In that exact second, the hand Bael had pillowed beneath my head—the fingers resting in my hair since last night—stiffens violently. His grip tightens into my hair, then loosens, and before I can process the shift, he uses that hold to gently pull my head back, forcing me to look up.

My eyes meet his.

He’s wide awake.

His dark grey eyes are blown wide, the pupils dilated. His breathing is shallow and rapid, his bare chest heaving up and down against my palm. Down below, pressed firmly against my lap, I can feel the thick, rock-hard length of his arousal digging into my thigh.

He’s been awake... He was pretending the entire time.

"...Runze..." Bael’s voice is so hoarse, so thick with suppressed restraint, that it sends a shiver straight down my spine.

"...Please..." He swallows. "...Don’t keep doing this to me."

His breathing turns uneven. "...I won’t be able to stop myself."

It sounds like a warning. A threat borne of sheer agony.

I stare up into his dark, storm-filled eyes, my chest heavy with want, my lips parted and wet.

"I don’t want you to stop," I whisper.

Bael’s breath locks completely in his throat.

My voice shakes as I push past every remaining shred of my pride:

"Bael... take me like you promised."

For a moment, Bael simply stares at me, as though his mind has forgotten how to process words.

Bael goes completely still. Even his breathing seems to stop. His eyes drop to my lips, then return to mine so quickly it almost hurts to watch. He’s looking for hesitation, for regret, for any excuse to stop himself.

Slowly, carefully, he shifts the hand I had guided to my chest back down to my side. He moves over me, taking extreme care not to let a single pound of his heavy torso press against my bump.

He straddles my hips with painstaking gentleness, his thighs framing mine, his hands planted on either side of my head, shaking slightly.

He looks down at me, his expression raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly intense.

"...Can I really?" he asks, his voice trembling as he seeks permission one last time.

I nod urgently, my fingers clutching his wrists. "Please."

Instead of claiming my mouth right away, Bael slowly leans down. He lowers his head past my face, past my neck, until his warm breath brushes directly against the thin cotton covering my stomach.

He presses his lips gently against my bump, his voice dropping into a rough, emotional whisper directed at the child inside me:

"...Can you hear that? Your dad says I’m allowed to have him."

Something burns behind my eyes.

He stays there for another heartbeat, his forehead resting lightly against me, as though steadying himself.

When he finally looks up, our eyes meet. Relief floods his eyes. Gratitude follows it. Then something so raw and overwhelming it almost hurts to look at.

His fingers brush my cheek.

"...Thank you," he whispers.

Then, only then, he leans down and kisses me.

The moment our mouths meet, my fingers tighten in his hair. Every thought I’d been holding onto slips quietly out of reach.

Bael kisses me slowly and carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he kisses me too hard.

I don’t let him stay careful for long.

My hands tangle into his hair, pulling him closer.

Closer.

Until I can’t tell where my breathing ends and his begins.

His hands stop hesitating. One slips beneath my shirt while the other settles at my waist, as though he can’t decide where to touch me first.

Then—

Just as I wrap my legs around his waist, desperate for more—

Bael suddenly freezes.

He pulls back just enough to break the kiss, both of us gasping for air in the tight space between us.

His chest heaves against mine. His dark eyes drop down to the space between our bodies, then snap back up to mine, filled with something dangerously wicked.

"...You’re already wet."

My face burns. I try to avert my gaze, but his forehead pressed against mine, trapping me in his line of sight.

Bael slowly slides one hand down between our bodies, his fingers reaching the damp cotton of my sleep pants.

He brushes his fingers right against the hot, soaked fabric.

I gasp, my hips jerking up instinctively at the contact.

Bael’s pupils darken until the grey in his eyes completely vanishes. A slow smile spreads across his lips.

The look in his eyes makes my heart stumble.

"...I don’t think breakfast is happening today."