Page 84 of Cruel Submission

Who sees through my bullshit even when I’m trying my hardest to hide.

Who makes me want to be better than what I am.

My hand tightens on her stomach. I’ll keep them safe. Both of them. All four of them, counting Aleks and Debra.

Whatever it takes.

Even if it means finally confronting the ghost of Mishka. Even if it means war with my father. Even if it means destroying everything I’ve built to protect what matters.

And I will go to war. Gavriil thinks he can operate in my city, under my nose, taking what he wants. He’s wrong. The trafficking pipeline dies with him. Every man who touched Debra dies with him.

I’ve killed for less than family before.

For them? I’ll paint the streets red.

Family.

Mine.

The word doesn’t feel foreign anymore.

It feels like a loaded gun—heavy with potential, dangerous, capable of destruction.

It feels right.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Mirabel

Two Weeks Later

The weeks after Arkady’s proposal have been pure joy.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to tear apart this fragile happiness we’ve built. But it doesn’t. Instead, days blur together in a haze of sunlight and laughter and nights that leave me boneless in tangled sheets.

Arkady told me to stop working as his housekeeper. Just like that. One morning over breakfast, he looked up from his coffee and said, “You’re done cleaning my house, zaychik. I’ll hire someone else.”

I tried to argue—what else am I supposed to do all day?—but he cut me off with a look. That look. The one that says he’s made a decision and debate is pointless.

Two days later, he posted the job listing himself. Same website where I’d applied months ago. Now he sits in his office conducting interviews, asking questions about references and experience while I listen through the door and try not to laugh. Arkady Laurov, Bratva prince, interrogating potential housekeepers like they’re applying to handle state secrets.

Which, knowing this house, they probably are.

Debra moved out of the Secret Room. Arkady had the east wing suite prepared for her—the one with the garden view and the bathroom that’s bigger than my old apartment. She was terrified at first. I could see it in the way she stood in the doorway, frozen, like stepping inside meant something would hurt her.

But Yanis helped. He’s patient with her in ways I didn’t know men could be patient. Gentle. He spent three hours that first day just sitting with her in the new room, letting her adjust to the space. Now she’s there most nights, and during the day, we’re together.

Every moment possible, we’re together.

We sit in the garden. We walk through the house. We watch movies in the theater room that Arkady had built into the basement. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, just exist in the same space, and that’s enough.

She’s getting better. Not healed—Dr. Harrison says it won’t happen in weeks—but better. She smiles sometimes. Real smiles that reach her eyes. Soon, she’ll be strong enough to visit our father, who’s also been making good progress, according to his doctors. The days are good.

And the evenings…

Every single evening, Arkady comes to our bedroom and takes me apart. Some nights it’s rough, his hands bruising my hips, his teeth marking my throat. Other nights it’s slower, almost worshipful, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin like he’s soaking me in. But every night, he’s there. Every night, he makes me forget everything except the weight of him above me and the sound of my name in his mouth.

I’m so happy it scares me.