He stands, towering over me, and I see it: the cracks in his armor, the way he’s trembling just beneath the surface. I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him as tightly as he holds me.
Somewhere in the dark outside, the world is shifting. The city will wake to rumors, to fear, to whispers of power and violence and love gone to war with itself. None of that matters, not right now. The only thing real is the warmth of his skin, thecool press of the ring, the certainty that we are bound, not by force but by choice.
Later, he leads me to bed. There are no games tonight, no sharp edges—just the quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, despite everything, we can have this. He slips beneath the blankets beside me, curling his body around mine. I feel the steady beat of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breath. I know there will be no going back, no pretending this is anything less than a promise we cannot break.
Sleep comes slowly, tangled with longing and fear and something dangerously close to peace. I drift, the weight of the ring heavy and right on my hand, his arm locked around my waist. I am not captive. I am not free. I am simply his. And in the end, that is all I want.
We lie together in the hush, neither of us reaching for sleep. His breath stirs the hair at the nape of my neck, arms locked around me as if he means to keep me from slipping away even in dreams. The fire across the room gutters low, casting shifting light over our tangled bodies. My thumb brushes the ring, grounding myself in its weight, in him.
He murmurs something in Russian, words low and threaded with sleep. I don’t need a translation; the meaning lives in the way he holds me, in the way his hand tightens every time I shift. I let my eyes close, pressing back against the solid line of his chest.
For once, I don’t feel hunted or cornered. The world beyond the door falls away, leaving only the pulse of his heart, the quiet promise in his arms. This is what I’ve chosen: not safety, not surrender, but belonging. I let myself believe, just for tonight, that we can have this—messy, dangerous, real.
Miron’s lips brush my temple, a benediction and a vow. I know I’m home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Miron
The city is tense this morning. I feel it in the hush of the streets outside, in the clipped conversations of my men as they sweep the church, in the cold knot that’s coiled in my gut since before dawn.
The air is thick with the scent of rain and gun oil. It is the day of my wedding, and every shadow reminds me that peace is only ever borrowed, never owned.
The church is old, stone battered by years and secrets. I chose it for its seclusion, for the height of its iron gates and the thickness of its doors. Outside, black cars line the curb—my men in their best suits, their eyes sharper than glass.
The guests are few. Family, allies, witnesses who understand exactly what’s at stake. No one will mistake this for a celebration. It’s a signal, as clear as any shot fired in the night: she is mine, and what’s mine is untouchable.
Inside, the nave is dim, light filtered through stained glass. I stand at the altar, jaw set, hands clasped behind my back. The priest trembles, sweating through his collar. He knows who I am. He knows what happens to anyone who speaks against me today.
The hush breaks as the doors open. Sera steps in, and the world shifts.
She wears black lace, a gown cut sharp at the shoulder, the fabric flowing behind her like spilled ink. Her hair is pulled back, her eyes kohl-dark and unblinking. She walks without hesitation, each step measured, a silent challenge to every man in the room.
No one could mistake her for a victim, not today. She is bride and queen, every inch of her a warning and a promise.
Pride twists inside me—sharp, consuming, electric. The room is full of men who would kneel if I ordered it, but it is Sera who makes me feel like the world could collapse and I would not flinch. She is everything I have ever wanted, and everything I have ever feared.
As she draws closer, I hold her gaze. My voice, when I speak, is for her alone. “You look like you’ve come to rule, not to wed.”
A flicker of a smile dances at the edge of her mouth. “Maybe I have. Maybe you should be afraid.”
There’s a murmur from the pews—my uncle Boris, his mouth twisted in a smirk, the underbosses watching, weighing every word. I ignore them all. Today, nothing matters but the woman standing before me.
The priest clears his throat, voice shaking as he begins. “We are gathered here today…”
Sera stands still as stone, her hands steady, chin high. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat, the challenge in her eyes. Lace clings to her shoulders, the skirt whispering over marble. She meets every stare in the room, refusing to be cowed by the arsenal on display, by the world we’ve built out of threat and loyalty.
I step forward, lowering my head to murmur so only she can hear. “You’re not afraid?”
Her eyes flash, lips barely parting. “Of you? Never.”
A jolt of pride runs through me, mingled with something darker. My hand closes around hers, the ring cold on her finger. “Good. I’d hate for you to start now.”
She squeezes back, grip fierce. “You only get one queen, Miron. Try not to break her.”
My mouth curves, a real smile for the first time all day. “That was never my plan.”
From the side aisle, Pavel nods to me, a subtle signal. The perimeter is tight. No threats inside. For now, we are safe.
The priest’s voice rises, reciting the rites in Russian and English. The congregation is silent, the air heavy with anticipation and fear. My men shift at the edges of the pews, hands brushing over hidden weapons, always alert.
