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I give up on containing my emotions. What I feel is too much for any man to conceal. I let it flow, let her smile light up my life and give meaning to my existence. I let her invade my soul and take my heart prisoner. She’s sublime. Beautiful. Sheer perfection.

The priest says what priests say at wedding ceremonies, but I hardly hear the words. I’m too aware of Mina’s small body and how good it feels where our sides touch. I’m too aware of her smell and the warmth of her skin when I grip her delicate hand and slide the ring over her finger. The ruby is red like the blood she shed for me, red like my love for her.

“I do,” she says, and my world turns just right.

She’s mine.

For the rest of our lives.

Epilogue: Mina

Prague, 3 Years Later

The view over Prague is magnificent. The restaurant is on the hill next to the castle, showcasing the domed copper rooftops that dominate the cityscape like a scene straight from a fairy tale. The only sight more beautiful than the one below is the man sitting across from me.

Yan brushes back his dark hair with a big, masculine hand. The gesture is innocent, but when I remember what those hands are capable of, a spark lights in my belly. The way his jacket fits his broad shoulders kindles that spark into a flame. His eyes are alight with the knowledge of what he does to me, and the fire in those jade-green depths is a promise of what will happen later at our apartment.

I appreciate that he kept the place. It holds memories for me. Fond ones.

When the waiter has poured the champagne, Yan clinks his glass against mine. “To three years.”

“Three years,” I echo.

Three years in remission. It hasn’t always been easy, but true to his word, Yan was there for me. He told me I was strong when I was physically weak. He told me I was beautiful when I lost all my hair. He fed and bathed me. He held and comforted me. We celebrated the small milestones together. Then the bigger ones. He fought and rejoiced with me. He held me when I had my nightmares. He still does, although these days they’re less frequent. He didn’t spare any expenses with the medical care at our Mozambican home. He hired a whole team to take care of Hanna and me, to cook and clean and nurse us. He never left my side. Not once. He was my rock when Hanna quietly passed away in her sleep last year. The hole her absence left still hurts, but sharing my grief with Yan makes it more bearable.

Leaning over the table, he grips a lock of my shoulder-length hair and lets it slide through his fingers. It’s a seductive touch, one that makes me press my knees together under the table to still the ache between my legs.

“I like the dress,” he says in a low voice, brushing a finger along the curve of my neck to my shoulder. Goosebumps follow in the wake of his touch.

He should like it. He bought it. The dress is very feminine, a lace-over-silk creation that falls mid-thigh.

I give him a heated look. “I like us.”

“Do you now?” His timbre is rough, lustful.

“We said we were going sightseeing this afternoon,” I remind him with a smile. So far, we haven’t seen much more than the inside of his bedroom. Our bedroom.

My phone vibrates on the tabletop. I glance at the screen. Unlisted number. A second later, Yan’s phone vibrates.

Holding each other’s eyes, we sip our champagne. This is supposed to be a sentimental holiday to celebrate my third year of being healthy. We’re not supposed to work. But I see the temptation in his gaze.

I narrow my eyes in a dare. Kicking off a shoe, I trail my toes up his leg. He stiffens, swallows visibly, and catches my foot before I reach my destination. Placing my foot in his lap, he massages it gently even as his attention sharpens. He’s watching me like a hawk, calling the bluff of my failed distraction.

Another moment of silent challenge passes.

When I reach for my phone, lightning fast, he moves too. We’re both unlocking our screens, our fingers tapping fast.

I hit send. “It’s mine.”

He drags a heated gaze over me. “Not if I beat you to it.”

“You won’t dare.”

He raises a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

“You did the job in Poland.”

“You did the one in Angola.”

My smile is seductive. “Ladies first.”

“Oh, but my princess is only a lady when it suits her.” He strokes a thumb over the arch of my foot. “We could do the job together, split it fifty-fifty.”

“Three million each?” I pout. “I had my heart set on six.”

“What’s mine is yours anyway, Minochka.” His smile is pure sex.

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