I don’t answer. I don’t need to. My fingers curl tighter around his, and that’s answer enough.
The air inside the estate is warmer, scented faintly of pinewood smoke and leather. The hallways are quiet, but Alexei doesn’t let go of my hand as he leads me toward our room. The ring on my finger feels heavier with every step, not a shackle this time, but a choice I made. That difference burns through me, heady and sharp.
When the door closes behind us, the silence shifts. It’s thick, charged, threaded with the weight of everything unsaid. I turn to him, expecting words—another vow, another warning. Instead, he just watches me, eyes roaming from the ring on my finger to the curve of my throat.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs.
“I’m not afraid.” My voice is steadier than I expect.
He steps closer, his hand brushing against my cheek, rough thumb grazing my lips like he’s memorizing them. “Then what is it?”
I meet his gaze without flinching. “Want.”
Something in his expression cracks open, raw and unguarded. He exhales hard, then pulls me to him.
The kiss isn’t brutal this time. It’s slower, deliberate, consuming. His mouth claims mine, warm and demanding, and I melt against him, my fingers clutching at his shirt. His tongue teases mine, the taste of smoke and vodka mixing with something that’s only him.
Heat sparks low in my belly, winding tighter as his hands slide down my back, gripping my waist like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he loosens his hold.
I press closer, my body fitting against his like it was made to. My pulse races when his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, then down my throat. Each scrape of teeth, each sweep of his tongue sends shivers rushing through me. I tilt my head back, giving him more, my breath catching when he bites lightly at the base of my neck.
“Alexei…” My whisper breaks on his name, part plea, part warning.
He groans low, the sound vibrating against my skin. “You chose me,” he mutters against my throat, each word a brand. “You’re mine now.”
My fingers slide into his hair, pulling him back up to my mouth. I kiss him hard, pouring every ounce of fury, of surrender, of need into it. He answers in kind, his hands gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I can feel hisarousal, thick and insistent against my stomach, and the shock of it only drives me harder into him.
We stumble backward toward the bed, mouths locked, hands frantic. My coat falls from my shoulders, forgotten. His palms slip beneath my blouse, rough fingers against bare skin, making me gasp into his mouth.
When my back hits the mattress, I don’t think of blood or vengeance or the Bratva. I think only of him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Alexei
Days pass, and the world doesn’t end. It almost feels like an insult, that after so much blood, so much fire, life dares to go on with the same steady rhythm. But it does. Snow keeps falling. Phones keep ringing. The Bratva machine hums forward, scarred but not broken.
The cleanup is ugly. Bodies vanish into cold earth or shallow rivers, debts are collected in bruises and broken kneecaps, and money trails are scrubbed clean before rivals can sink their claws into them.
A few of the old guard resist, clinging to scraps of Igor’s order like drowning men, but they’re dealt with swiftly; some bought, some buried. Power vacuums are always dangerous, but this time, they’re mine to shape.
For the first time, I’m not reacting to chaos. I’m not chasing fires, not letting my father’s shadow dictate my steps. Every move I make now is deliberate. Chosen. The Bratva still stands, but not as it did before. No more debts to ghosts. No more paper chains choking us from the inside.
Controlled. Loyal. Mine.
Vivienne has become more than anyone expected—myself included. The men no longer look at her as an outsider or a hostage. They look at her the way they look at me: sharp-eyed, wary, but with respect threaded through the caution.
She earned it, piece by bloody piece. I see it when she walks into the room, shoulders square, chin lifted, when she gives an order and it’s obeyed without hesitation. She’s carved herself into this empire not as my wife, not as a shield, but as a force in her own right.
Yet I know what this world costs. I know what it has already taken from her.
Which is why, when the dust finally settles enough for me to breathe, I take her out of the city.
The drive is quiet. She doesn’t ask where we’re going, doesn’t press when I refuse to answer. She just watches me from the passenger seat, one hand resting on her thigh, the other curled against the window. The ring glints faintly on her finger when the light hits it, and I find myself staring too often, my grip tightening on the wheel each time.
We pull off the road after an hour, tires crunching over gravel, then silence as I kill the engine. Before us, the property rises out of the snow: a small house, tucked against the tree line, its roof sagging under frost, its walls weathered but sound. No guards, no steel gates, no cameras watching every angle. Just quiet.
She steps out beside me, her boots sinking into the snow, her eyes scanning the house with careful curiosity. I stand still for a moment, letting her take it in.
“It’s not perfect,” I tell her finally. My voice feels strange in the stillness, too rough, too heavy. I gesture toward the house. “But it’s real. We could be happy here, the two of us.”
