"With paperwork."
"And witnesses."
She stared at me. I stared back.
"Yes," Maya whispered.
The kiss started gentle. Her mouth finding mine with the soft hesitation of someone who couldn't quite believe this was real. Then deeper. Her fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer, her body pressing against mine with the urgency of someone who'd just made a choice and wanted to make sure it stuck.
I kissed her until we were both breathless. Until the cats stirred in their shark bed and settled again. Until the lamplight felt like a blessing instead of just illumination.
"I love you," I said against her mouth.
"I love you too." She pulled back just enough to look at me, and her eyes were wet but she was smiling. "Though for the record, I expect a ring eventually. A big one. Something that says 'my fiancé could kill everyone in this room but instead he bought me jewelry.'"
I laughed. The sound rumbled through my chest and into hers.
"Done."
“And there’s one other thing?”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow.
“The thing we’ve been discussing.”
My heart pounded in my chest. Fuck. Well, I guess this was about to happen.
Time for Doctor Kostya to look after a very special patient.
Chapter 20
Maya
ThedoortoKostya'soffice had never looked this intimidating.
I'd walked past it a hundred times. Had poked my head in when dinner was ready, had knocked to tell him Zmeya was trying to eat his bootlaces again, had leaned against the doorframe while he finished phone calls in Russian that I pretended not to understand. Just a door. Oak, heavy, probably reinforced because bratva, but still—just a door.
Tonight, though, it felt like a portal to somewhere I wasn't sure I was brave enough to go.
My stomach was doing acrobatics. Butterflies, sure, but also something sharper. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff knowing you were about to jump.
We'd talked about this. Weeks ago, in the dark, when confessions came easier. When the weight of Kostya's arm across my waist made me feel brave enough to say things I'd never admitted to anyone.
"There's this thing," I'd whispered, staring at the ceiling instead of him. "This fantasy. It's stupid."
"Tell me." Not a request. A command, but gentle.
"Medical stuff. Being examined." I'd felt my face burn in the darkness. "Like, a doctor's appointment, except—not. Someone clinical and detached, taking control. Telling me what to do. Looking at me like I'm—" I'd stopped, embarrassed. "Like I said. Stupid."
He'd been quiet for long enough that I'd started to panic. Started composing the explanation of why he should forget I'd ever mentioned it, why it was probably some weird manifestation of my career trauma, why—
"Not stupid," he'd said finally. His hand had tightened on my hip. "Interesting."
And then nothing. No discussion, no follow-up, no indication he'd filed it anywhere except the mental trash bin where normal people put their partner's weird confessions.
Until the note.
I'd found it this morning on my pillow, written in his precise handwriting on compound stationery like it was official bratva business.
