“Are you done with that?”
He grins, tossing the ring into the air and catching it without breaking stride. “Not yet.”
The urge to punch him in the face grows stronger by the second, but I resist. Barely. Instead, I glance toward the aisle, the place where Clara will walk out. The thought makes my pulse spike, and I shift in my seat, trying to focus on anything but that.
It doesn’t work.
The live choir begins singing, their voices rising in perfect harmony with the strings. The melody cuts through the icyair, rich and vibrant, making the crowd fall silent. The faint murmurs fade, replaced by the music and the distant crunch of snow under someone’s boots.
I flick my gaze upward—and there she is.
Clara.
My heart stops.
She stands at the far end of the aisle, wrapped in white and shimmering faintly in the light. Her shoulders are bare beneath a soft fur stole, her dark hair pinned up to reveal her neck. The dress is simple, elegant, clinging to her like it was made for her alone. The gold embroidery at the hem glints faintly as she takes her first step forward.
Her eyes find mine, and suddenly, the cold is gone. The wind, the choir, the crowd—everything fades until there’s only her.
God help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.
My wife. Mrs. Kuznetsov.
Epilogue
Leonid
A Kuznetsov Christmas
The smell of turkey hits me the moment I step into the kitchen. One week since our wedding in the Alps, and my house looks like Christmas threw up everywhere. Tinsel, lights, and enough decorations to make the Rockefeller Center jealous. Never thought I'd see the day when the Kuznetsov mansion would look like a Hallmark movie set.
"Bozhe moy," Maksim groans from his perch on the counter, watching Dmitry baste what has to be the biggest turkey I've ever seen. "This is so... American. Next thing you know, we'll be singing carols and wearing matching sweaters."
"We are wearing matching sweaters," I point out, tugging at the red monstrosity Clara insisted on. "And you're still here because...?"
"Where else would I go?" He grins, swiping a cookie from the cooling rack. "Besides, someone needs to document the mightyPakhan's first American Christmas."
Clara whirls around, flour dusting her cheek, brandishing a wooden spoon. "Touch another cookie, and you'll be celebrating New Year's in the hospital."
"Such violence," Maksim clutches his chest dramatically. "And here I thought Kayla was the scary one. Speaking of—"
"She's in California with her family," Clara cuts him off, her expression softening slightly. "Everyone deserves to be home for Christmas."
Home.
The word hits differently now. A week ago, this place was just a house. Secure. Fortified. Functional. Now there are stockings hanging from the fireplace, each hand-picked by Elijah. Even Pavel the peacock has a tiny one.
A piercing screech from outside makes Maksim jump, nearly dropping his stolen cookie.
"Pavel!" Elijah's voice carries from the garden. "Papa! Papa, come quick!"
Papa.
My heart still stops every time he says it. Started three days ago, over breakfast. I'd been checking security reports on my phone when he'd simply said, "Papa, can you pass the syrup?" Like he hadn't just demolished every wall I'd ever built. I'd had to leave the room, blame it on an urgent call.
Because Leonid fucking Kuznetsov doesn't cry over a word.
I find him pressed against the garden doors, nose leaving smudges on the glass. "The turkey must have been Pavel's friend," he says solemnly, eyes wide with concern. "He sounds so sad."
