“Good,” I murmur, sliding my hand down to wrap around him. He lets me stroke him slow and tight until his hips jerk andhe comes with my name on his lips, forehead pressed to mine, water pounding over us.
After we’re dressed, me in jeans and one of his hoodies that still smells like him, him in black tee and leather jacket, we head downstairs. Dmitri’s waiting in the lobby with two coffees. He hands me one, eyes flicking over both of us like he knows exactly what took us so long.
“Father’s expecting you,” he says. “Just the two of you. The rest of us stay here until we know the next move.”
Roman takes my free hand, threads our fingers. “Let’s go meet the family.”
The drive to the estate is quiet. I keep my head on his shoulder, watching the trees blur past the window. Every few minutes he squeezes my hand or kisses my temple. When we pull through the big iron gates, my stomach flips. Father’s already standing on the wide front steps, arms crossed, face unreadable.
I step out first. He walks down to meet me, pulls me into a hug that smells like cigar smoke and old cologne and home. His arms are tight, almost too tight.
“Anastasiya,” he says against my hair. “You scared ten years off my life.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding on just as hard. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
He lets go, looks me over like he’s checking for new damage, then turns to Roman. For a long second they just stare at each other. Then Father extends his hand.
“Roman Kovacs. You brought my daughter home alive. That earns you respect.”
Roman shakes it firm. “I’d walk through hell to keep her safe. She’s my wife now.”
Father nods once, slow. “Then you’re family. Come inside. Breakfast is waiting.”
The dining room feels smaller than I remember. The long table is set for four, white linen, fresh flowers, silver that catches the light. Dmitri and Mikhail are already there. Mikhail’s bouncing his knee under the table. Dmitri’s spinning a coffee cup in his hands.
We sit. Father at the head. Me and Roman across from him. The staff brings plates, blini stacked high with sour cream and caviar, fresh berries, thick slices of dark bread, strong black coffee.
For a minute nobody talks. Just forks scraping plates. Then Father sets his cup down.
“You married my daughter in a church with a dead man bleeding at your feet,” he says to Roman. “That takes courage.”
Roman meets his eyes straight on. “She’s worth every risk.”
Father looks at me. “You chose him.”
“I did,” I say. “And I’d choose him a hundred times over.”
Mikhail leans forward, grinning. “Welcome to the family, brother. Try not to get shot next time.”
Dmitri raises his coffee cup. “To my new brother. You keep her safe or I’ll kill you myself.”
Roman chuckles low. “Fair.”
Father watches the exchange, then nods. “Good. You’re one of us now, Roman. My son.”
I feel my eyes sting. Roman’s hand finds my knee under the table, gives it a gentle squeeze.
After breakfast Father stands. “Come. Let’s pack what you want to take home today. The rest I’ll have shipped.”
We follow him upstairs to my old room. It looks exactly like I left it, bookshelves overflowing, desk covered in half-finished sketches, closet door cracked open. Roman sets the duffel on the bed and starts helping without being asked. He folds my favorite sweaters, stacks books carefully, tucks the little wooden horse Dmitri carved for me when I was six into a side pocket.
I pull open the closet, run my fingers over the dresses I used to wear to galas. “I don’t need most of this.”
“Take what makes you happy,” Father says from the doorway. “The rest goes in storage until you decide.”
I grab a few hoodies, the soft cashmere scarf Mama gave me before she got sick, the photo of us when I was little. Roman zips the duffel when it’s full.
Father watches us, then clears his throat. “So. When do I get grandchildren?”
