"You understand what you're agreeing to?" he asked finally. "This isn't a romance novel where love conquers all. This is real violence, real danger, real consequences. Can you live with that?"
I thought about Marcus's ear hitting plastic, about the casual efficiency of professional violence, about blood being cleaned from car seats like spilled coffee.
"I can," I said.
Alexei moved to his desk, pulling out a phone that he set to record. "State your name."
"Eva Serano."
"Do you willingly accept the protection of the Volkov Bratva, understanding the commitments and consequences that come with that protection?"
"I do."
"Do you swear loyalty to this family, to keep our secrets, guard our interests, and accept our justice?"
The formal words felt like a ceremony, like something more binding than any legal document. "I swear."
"Then you are Volkov now. Not by blood but by choice, which makes the bond stronger." He stopped the recording, and something shifted in his expression—still cold but somehow including me in its protection rather than evaluation. "Welcome to the family, sister."
Sister. The word hit unexpectedly hard. I'd been alone so long, the idea of belonging—really belonging—to something larger than myself felt like vertigo.
Dmitry pulled me against him, pressing a kiss to my temple that felt like a vow. "Mine," he murmured against my skin, but it meant something different now. Not just his Little, his girlfriend, his protected thing. But his family. His to protect and keep and defend with all the violence this world contained.
Ivan stood from his monitors, approaching with something in his hand. A phone, I realized. Not just any phone—encrypted, military-grade, the kind that could only call certain numbers.
"For emergencies," he said, showing me three programmed numbers. "Dmitry, Alexei, and me. Anyone threatens you, anyone approaches you about the Morozovs, anyone makes you feel unsafe—you call. We'll handle it."
Handle it. Such a clean euphemism for violence, but I understood now that violence was just another language here, one that spoke of protection and consequence in equal measure.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "All of you."
Bear chose that moment to wake up fully, stretching and yawning before realizing we were in the scary room again. But instead of cowering, he trotted over to Alexei—the scariest man in the room—and put his paws up on his leg, tail wagging hopefully.
Alexei looked down at the puppy with something like bewilderment. "What does it want?"
"Attention," I said. "He likes you."
"Ridiculous," Alexei said, but he reached down to pet Bear anyway, careful and precise even in this simple gesture.
And that's when I knew I'd made the right choice. In a world where the Pakhan of the Bratva would pet a puppy while planning violence, where killers built pillow forts for their Littles, where protection meant painting walls with enemy blood—this strange, violent, tender family was where I belonged.
"Come on," Dmitry said, arm around my waist. "Let's go home."
Home. Not his apartment but ours. Not hiding but protected. Not alone but family.
As we left the compound, Bear trotting between us, I thought about the girl who'd stolen a USB from a storage unit just trying to survive another day. She could never have imagined this—being precious enough to protect, valuable enough to kill for, loved enough to be made family despite all her sharp edges.
But that girl was gone now, replaced by someone who understood that sometimes safety came painted in blood, love came armed with violence, and family was something you chose rather than were born into.
I was Eva Serano, but I was also Volkov now. And anyone who tried to hurt me would learn what that meant, written in a language of consequence that left no room for misunderstanding.
Chapter 16
Eva
Morninglightpaintedgoldenstripes across Dmitry's chest, making his tattoos glow. His arm lay heavy across my waist, possessive even in sleep, and I stayed perfectly still just to feel the weight of it—proof that last night wasn't a dream, that I really belonged here in his bed, in his world, in this strange new family I'd chosen.
My finger traced the raised scar that ran over his ribs. There were others—a puckered bullet wound near his hip, knife marks on his forearms, the small, crooked line on his jaw where his stubble didn’t grow. His body read like a war memoir, each mark a chapter in the brutal life that had shaped him into this beautiful, dangerous creature who somehow thought I was worth protecting.
