He was watching my face, reading every emotion that flickered across it. “So let me ask again.” His voice dropped, going rough in a way that made my stomach flip. “Are you going to agree to marry me, or do I need to try something else?”
I raised my eyebrow, trying to regain some control over this conversation that had completely gotten away from me. “Something else?”
“Something else.” He moved a little closer, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Then his hand came up, cupping my face with a gentleness that made my breath catch.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away, to stop this, to maintain the distance I’d been trying so hard to create.
I didn’t move.
His lips brushed mine, soft and questioning. Not demanding. Not taking. Just offering. Just asking a question that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with the way my heart was racing, the way my hands were already reaching for him before I consciously decided to move.
I kissed him back.
Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t resist the pull any more than I could resist gravity or breathing or any other fundamental force of nature. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and his arm wrapped around my waist like he’d been waiting for permission.
The kiss deepened, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about different worlds or impossible situations or all the reasons this couldn’t work. I was only thinking about the way he tasted, the way he held me like I was something breakable and unbreakable all at once, the way everything else faded into background noise when he touched me.
“How long will you take to agree to marry me, princess?” He murmured the words against my lips, and I felt them more than heard them.
Princess. The endearment should’ve annoyed me. Should’ve felt patronizing or dismissive. Instead, it made something warm bloom in my chest.
But I wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet. Not when he hadn’t actually asked properly.
I pulled back just enough to speak, just enough to see his face. “Who did I call when I was bleeding out?” The question came out stronger than I felt. “Who did I think of when I thought I was dying?”
His jaw clenched. I watched the muscle jump, watched something dark and possessive flash through his blue eyes.
“You.” I whispered the answer he already knew. “I called you, Kirill. Not my father. Not my friends. Not 911. You. Because somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, you became the person I trusted most in the world.”
The admission hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying in its vulnerability.
I could see him processing it, see the way his expression shifted from determination to something softer. Something that looked almost like wonder.
“I know you’re still angry about what happened to me,” I continued, my hands still fisted in his shirt, keeping him close. “I know you want to hunt down Sebastian and make him pay. I know you’re probably planning a dozen different ways to protect me that I haven’t even thought of yet.”
“Barbara….”
“But right now, that’s not important.” I met his gaze steadily. “Right now, what’s important is this. Us. Figuring out what we are to each other.”
He moved in again, his lips brushing mine with a gentleness that made my heart ache. We were in the middle of my father’s mansion, in the sitting room where I’d entertained hundreds of guests over the years, where I’d played the perfect daughter and hidden everything that was broken inside me.
And now Kirill was kissing me here, claiming this space, making it ours instead of just mine.
“That still isn’t yes,” he said against my mouth, and I could feel his smile.
I pulled back, raising my eyebrow in challenge. Then I shoved his chest just enough to push him back, creating space between us. “Then ask better.”
His eyes darkened. “Ask better?”
“You heard me.” I crossed my arms, trying to look stern despite the fact that my lips were probably swollen from his kisses and my heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe. “You don’t just announce we’re getting married like you’re discussing a business transaction. You don’t just assume I’ll fall in line with whatever plan you’ve made.”
“What do you want me to do?” There was amusement in his voice now, mixed with genuine curiosity.
“I want you to ask me properly.” I said it like it should be obvious. “On your knee. With a ring. Making it clear that you’re not just doing this because of the baby or because of Bratva tradition or because Vladimir told you to.”
“Vladimir didn’t tell me to propose.”
“But he did tell you to take care of what’s yours, right?” I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “He reminded you that the baby is Bratva bloodline, which means I’m part of that now, whether I want to be or not.”
