Page 187 of Betrayal and Vows

Every caress is deliberate, drawing out the most pleasure.

"You're so perfect," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. "So incredibly perfect."

I arch into his touch, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of his lips, every whisper of his breath. The scars on his chest catch the candlelight, reminders of how precious this is, how easily it could have been lost.

"Don't stop," I breathe, my hands sliding down the strong planes of his back. "Please don't stop."

He shifts above me, careful of my changing body, his movements slow and reverent.

When he kisses me again, I taste salt—tears, though I'm not sure if they're his or mine. Maybe both. The overwhelming gratitude that we're here, alive, together.

"My wife," he whispers against my throat. The word sends shivers through me. "My beautiful wife."

My hands tangle in his hair as sensation builds, white-hot and consuming.

"Anton," I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips.

"I've got you," he promises, his forehead pressed to mine. "I'll always have you."

When release finally claims us both, it's with a tenderness that brings tears to my eyes.

We collapse together, breathless and sated, his hand immediately finding its way to rest protectively over our child.

"No regrets?" he asks softly, echoing his earlier question.

"None," I whisper, settling against his chest where his heart beats strong and steady beneath my cheek.

"This is exactly where I belong."

As sleep begins to claim us both, I think about the decision he still needs to make about the Bratva. But that can wait until tomorrow.

Tomorrow we'll face whatever comes next.

Together.

Epilogue

Anton

The autumn air carries the scent of woodsmoke and fallen leaves as I watch Lena move through our garden, six-month-old Alexei strapped to her chest in a carrier.

She's pointing out the last tomatoes of the season to our son, her voice soft and melodic as she explains colors and textures he's still too young to understand.

But he listens anyway, his bright blue eyes—my eyes—tracking her movements with the intense focus that seems to be his trademark.

Lena always says he’s wise beyond his years. As soon as the boy starts talking, he’s going to have a lot to say.

He’s watchful.

Always observing.

It reminds me I need to watch what I say.

I am creating the next generation. I have the power to shape him through my actions.

"Your mama is teaching you about vegetables," I call out from where I'm setting up our lunch on the patio table. "Wait until she starts on the flowers. We'll be here all day."

Lena shoots me a mock glare over her shoulder. "He needs to learn these things. Don't you, little one?" She drops a kiss onAlexei's dark hair—hair that's already showing signs of being as unruly as mine was at that age.