I know what it means for me too, because as much as I have carved myself into his empire, I’ve also learned to wield him as a weapon. My voice softens in the right moments, my words chosen to humanize the syndicate through him. Through his presence.
I make the court see him not just as the Pakhan’s heir, not just as the wolf in the shadows, but as the man who listens when I speak, who stands behind me as if what I say carries his weight too. It’s power, and I use it. Shamelessly. Strategically.
When I look at him now, I don’t see the man who once forced a ring onto my finger in front of a room full of wolves.I don’t see the kidnapper who dragged me into his world with blood on his hands and silence in his eyes.
I see the man who stepped back when I reached for him, who let me make the choice. The one who never asked for forgiveness, and never received it.
We don’t need that. Forgiveness is for people who want to forget. I don’t want to forget.
Every day, when I wake before him and watch the snow gather outside the windows, when I walk into court with his shadow at my back, when I see blood on his knuckles but warmth in his eyes when he looks at me—every day, I still choose him.
Not because I have to. Not because survival demands it, but because it’s ours. All of it. The empire. The shadows. The sharp, relentless thing between us that feels closer to truth than anything else I’ve ever known.
In a world built on ash and fire, that’s more than enough.
***
The courthouse steps are slick with ice when I walk down them, the weight of the trial still heavy on my shoulders. I’ve argued longer, sharper, with prosecutors who thought they could corner me, but today something in me feels frayed. Maybe it’s the endless hours, maybe it’s the way the press cameras kept flashing in my face, hungry for cracks, for weakness. Alexei waits near the car, flanked by Dimitri and two others who watch the crowd like wolves.
He holds the door open for me. To anyone else it might look chivalrous, but I know better—it’s control, it’s protection, it’s Alexei making sure no one else touches me as I slide inside. The moment the door shuts and Milan slides behind the wheel, we pull into traffic, the silence between us is thick.
“You were reckless,” he mutters finally, brows furrowed.
I stiffen, my eyes cutting to him. “Reckless? I won the case.”
“You pushed too hard. Too visible.” His jaw ticks. “You’ve been… too much lately.”
Too much. The words sting more than I want them to. I cross my arms, staring out at the blur of buildings through the window. Heat coils low in my stomach, not just from his criticism but from something I can’t quite name. I’m tired, irritable, stretched thin. I want to argue, to bite back like I usually do, but then the thought strikes me—sudden, unwelcome.
Too much lately.
My cycle. The weeks blurring together in courts and late nights, coffee replacing meals. The haze clears as my brain starts counting backward, ticking off days, then weeks. My chest tightens.
It’s been more than a month. Nearly three, actually.
I blink hard, the realization sliding into me like a knife. My hands tremble slightly in my lap. For the first time in months, I don’t want to argue. I just want to breathe.
“Pull over,” I say suddenly.
Alexei glances at me sharply. “What?”
“Pull over. Now.”
His brows knit, but he nods to Milan to obey, and the driver guides the car into the lot of a sprawling superstore. He starts to say something, but Alexei silences him with a glare. The moment the engine cuts, I shove the door open and step out, boots crunching on salted asphalt.
“Vivienne,” he calls, voice warning.
“I’ll be right back.” My voice cracks as I slam the door.
The fluorescent lights inside the store sting my eyes. I walk fast, almost running, past displays of winter clothes and cheap jewelry until I reach the pharmacy aisle. The shelves swim in front of me, rows of tests stacked in neat boxes, pastel colors promising answers. My hands shake as I grab one, then two, before fumbling them into the basket.
The cashier doesn’t look at me twice. She scans, bags, hands me the receipt, and I force myself to walk steadily back to the car.
Alexei is waiting, leaning against the hood, cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. His eyes catch mine immediately. Dark. Demanding. I know he already suspects.
Inside the car, the silence is unbearable. My fingers twist the bag in my lap. Finally, I whisper, “I think I might be pregnant.”
The words hang there, heavy, louder than any gunshot.
