He frowns, his blue eyes narrowing as he looks down at me. "What are you talking about?"
"Us," I say, my hands coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. "The marriage. The house. Oleg. We’ve been running on adrenaline for weeks. We’ve been fighting our fathers, fighting the Bratva, fighting each other. But now... now the war is over. Boris is dead. Vladimir is dead. There are no more secrets."
I look out at the dark balcony, my voice dropping. "I’m not the Petrov princess anymore. I’m just a woman with a seven-year-old boy and a lot of emotional baggage. I keep wondering... if we wake up tomorrow, and there’s no one left to fight... are we still going to want each other?"
Mikhail doesn't answer immediately.
He sets his glass down on the side table with a slow, deliberate click. He steps into my space, his presence instantly swallowing the small distance between us. He reaches out, his large, scarred hands framing my face, his thumbs tilting my chin up until I have no choice but to look into the blue fire of his eyes.
"You're hallucinating, Irina," he growls, his voice a low, rough rasp.
"Mikhail—"
"Listen to me," he interrupts, his grip on my jaw tightening just enough to make me focus. "This became real long before either of us admitted it. It was real when I found you in Cancun. It was real when you sat at my table and won my game. And it was real when you looked me in the eye and told me you trusted me."
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my lips.
"The war didn't make me want you, Irina. The war was just the noise we had to clear out of the way. Oleg changes nothing. If he’s your son, then he’s my son to protect. And you... you’re my wife. If there is one thing I am certain of in this world, it is that I am never letting you go. There is no one left to fight,dorogaya. But I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere."
The last of my defenses simply collapse.
The stubbornness, the sass, the fear of being used... it all melts away in the heat of his promise. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my arms wrapping around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair as I pull him down into a kiss.
It’s a sweet, slow kiss, completely devoid of the violence of the last few nights. It tastes of safety, of morning, of a future we’ve finally won with our own hands. Mikhail groans into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest until there isn't a single millimeter of air between us.
He lifts me, my boots leaving the floor, and carries me to the bed. He sets me down on the silk sheets, his body a warm, heavy weight as he settles over me. He doesn't try to tear my clothes off. He just lies there, his head resting on my shoulder, his fingers interlocking with mine on the pillow.
"We’re home, Irina," he whispers against my skin.
I look toward the open French doors, the silver moonlight filling the room, the sound of the wind in the trees a peaceful, steady song.
The cage is gone. The bars are broken. But as I look at my husband, his hand warm on mine, I realize that I’m not running anymore.
I’m exactly where I belong.
EPILOGUE
One month later…
MIKHAIL
The collar of the white shirt is still too tight, but this time, I don’t feel like I’m breathing glass.
I stand in the double doors leading out to the rear garden of the estate, the crisp wind catching the lapels of my black suit jacket. It’s quiet. It’s beautiful.
"You're crooked," I grunt, not looking down.
A small, frustrated huff comes from somewhere near my hip. "I'm trying to fix it. The button is stupid."
I look down. Oleg is standing next to me, dressed in a small, charcoal suit that matches my own. He’s seven, but he’s already got that stubborn, serious look in his blue eyes that makes my chest tighten with a strange, heavy pride. His black tie is twisted into a knot that looks more like a bird's nest than a Windsor, his small fingers fumbling with the silk.
I drop to one knee on the stone threshold. I reach out, my large, scarred hands gently swatting his fingers away from the silk.
"Let me do it," I say.
"You're going to make it too tight," he complains, but he stands perfectly still, his chin tilting up so I can reach the collar. "Like the last one."
I slide the knot up, straightening the black silk with a slow, practiced movement. I pat his shoulder, my palm heavy and solid against the wool. "There. You look like a Morozov now."
