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The bedroom is washed in the late afternoon’s golden light, filtering through sheer curtains and painting long, warm shadows across the plush rug. The air carries the scent of fresh bread and vanilla from the bakery below, mixed with the faint, masculine trace of Ciro’s cologne. He’s leaned against the headboard, naked save for the sheet pooled at his hips, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the handsome, older man he is. His sharp brown eyes lift from his book the instant he catches your soft, uncertain voice. He watches you at the mirror, your hand pressing into your stomach, a frown lining your brow. His expression shifts at once from relaxed adoration to sharp, worried alertness. "My prince?" he asks, his voice a low, tender rumble, already sensing your distr…