He kisses me slowly, reverently, one hand sliding into my hair. The other settles over Sam’s small back. When he pulls away, he’s smiling—and only I ever get to see this version of him: the man who never stops loving, even when he’s terrifying the rest of the city into submission.
“Duscha looked like she was going to implode,” I add.
“She’ll survive.”
“She tried to ruin me.”
Konstantin’s mouth twitches. “And instead, she gave me everything I wanted.”
That makes me laugh, low and real.
He leans down, brushes a kiss to Sam’s head, and whispers in Russian. Sam responds with a soft grunt, tiny fists curling like he’s preparing to challenge God.
“He’s a Martynov,” Konstantin says proudly.
“He has your scowl.”
“And your eyes.”
I walk to the window while he watches, adjusting Sam’s blanket. The city stretches out before us, distant and glittering. Everything feels sharp and full. This life is nothing I imagined—and somehow, more than I ever dared hope for.
“He’s scheduled for feeding at noon,” I say absently. “And then a nap.”
“I’ll reschedule my meeting,” he murmurs behind me.
When I turn, he’s watching us like we’re something holy.
I feel the heat of his gaze slide down my body, slow and hungry.
“You wore that dress on purpose,” he says.
“It’s my first day back. I wanted to set the tone.”
He’s quiet a moment, then says softly, “It’s hard to watch you walk back into this place. Not because I’m angry. But because I’m afraid of what the world might try to take from me.”
“You’ve already made me untouchable,” I remind him. “Everyone knows. And everyone’s scared of you. Or trying to be friends. Fia invited us to dinner this weekend.”
“Mmm… tell her we’ll consider it.”
I roll my eyes, giving him a smirk, and walk back over to settle Sam into the bassinet near the window—one of Konstantin’s personal additions to the office. It’s sleek, dark gray, and cost more than my first car. “I already told her yes.”
For a few minutes, we’re quiet as Sam settles in. It’s times like these that Lev is indispensable; he makes the perfect, killer babysitter, and Konstantin and I have learned from him.
“Thank you,” I say softly, turning toward my husband.
He frowns. “For what?”
“For letting me come back. For trusting me. For treating me like I’m still my own person.”
He closes the space between us and takes my chin between two fingers.
“I don’t let you do anything,” he says, voice low. “You are my wife. The mother of my child. And you’ve earned your place in this empire. Don’t forget that.”
Hearing it is a balm.
He releases my chin and circles behind me, pressing his body to mine. I feel the heat of him through the silk of my dress, the steady hum of his breath at the base of my neck.
“When we get home,” he says, voice like silk and sin, “we’re going to celebrate your return.”
