Life with Miron is never quiet. He hasn’t softened; his anger still shakes the house some nights, the walls thrumming with his rage.
His men know to keep their heads down when he storms through the corridors, voice cold as winter.
Yet there are mornings when he wakes with his hand wrapped around mine, holding tight as if afraid I’ll disappear.
He watches me sometimes like he’s waiting for the punchline to a joke only he can hear. I’ve learned to accept the sharpness with the tenderness. Maybe that’s the real surrender—choosing to stay, even when I could leave.
The Bratva men treat me with wary respect. They tip their heads when I pass, never quite meeting my eye, but always listening when I speak. Miron would tear them apart if they faltered. They know it, and so do I. I’ve found a strange sort of power in this house, my words carrying weight I never wanted.
Miron lets me argue in front of them, his mouth twitching with pride when I hold my ground. He doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes he laughs, tells me later that he likes watching me work—his queen holding court.
It frightens me, this power. It ties me closer to his world than I ever intended, a silken rope I can’t unwind.
The days are busy now. I handle more than I once thought possible: paperwork, calls to suppliers, smoothing over the egos of men who’d once sneered at my presence. The work is never done. I feel it in my bones, a low, relentless hum. It keeps me anchored, even as the walls grow taller.
Tonight, thunder growls in the distance. I pace the length of the balcony, dress clinging to my skin, heart ticking away the hours.
Miron is late. I know what that means—another meeting, another night with blood under his fingernails and that wild light in his eyes.
Dread and relief war inside me: I hate the waiting, hate the part of me that aches for his return, hate that the first thing I do when he comes home is count the wounds.
The door finally swings open behind me. I don’t turn right away, bracing myself. I hear the weight of his steps, the click ofthe lock, the brush of his jacket across the back of a chair. He never makes a sound until he wants to.
I spin on my heel, letting the concern show on my face. Miron stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, knuckles smeared with blood—his, or someone else’s, I can never tell. His eyes sweep the room before settling on me. There’s danger in them still, but also something softer—a question, a reassurance.
“You’re late,” I say, folding my arms to hide the shake in my hands. “I thought we agreed you’d leave the theatrics at the office.”
He gives a low, humorless laugh, crossing the room in three strides. “You know how these things go, Sera. Sometimes words aren’t enough.”
I glare, fighting the urge to reach for him, to check every inch for wounds. “You could at least try to come home in one piece. If you bleed on the carpets again, I’ll make you clean it up.”
He raises a brow, the hint of a smirk breaking through the exhaustion. “Always so fierce, little raven.”
“Someone has to be. I’m not your nursemaid.” I step closer anyway, inspecting his hands, the scrape across his jaw. I can’t help the worry in my voice. “You always come back,” I say, softer now, “but one day—”
He catches my wrist, tugging me flush against him. “I always come back.” The words are quiet, fierce, spoken only for me. “This city can try to take me. The world can try, but I choose to return to you.”
The anger dissolves, replaced by something thick and bittersweet. I let myself lean into him, head resting against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat grounding me.
He presses a kiss to my hair, murmuring in Russian, the words lost but the meaning clear. I want to scold him, to demand he stop risking himself, but I know it would be pointless. He is who he is: storm and anchor, danger and home.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” I whisper. “Promise you won’t make me a widow.”
He tilts my chin, his gaze burning into mine. “I promise to fight for you. Always.”
I believe him, even as I know he can’t promise more. The city will always want its pound of flesh. I just pray it won’t be ours.
The storm finally breaks, rain lashing the windows as thunder rattles the glass. We stand together in the dark, watching the city that fears and obeys us, two silhouettes tangled in the light. For a moment, the world feels balanced, suspended between war and peace.
I hold him tighter, refusing to let go. Whatever else we’ve lost, we still have this: the kingdom we built from blood and stubbornness, and the love that, somehow, made us both rulers and captives.
***
After the storm passes, the house settles into a hush that’s almost peaceful. Miron moves through the rooms with me, restless as ever, but a little softer now—his hands less like weapons, more like anchors.
We eat late, sharing bread and soup at the kitchen table while the rain drums the windows. He says little, only a gruff, “Eat,” and I obey, more for him than for myself.
Later, in the darkness of our bedroom, I watch him undress by lamplight, the shadows skimming over scars old andnew. I lie on my side, hand curled at my stomach, feeling the strange comfort of his presence settle into my bones.
