“I didn’t. Not at first. But then you—” He stops, jaw tightening as he swallows hard, eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears. “You stepped in front of a bullet for my son—a child you’ve known for weeks. I watched you comfort Alya when her own mother couldn’t be bothered. I watched you build a family out of broken pieces, and I realized something.”
His forehead touches mine, his breath warm against my lips. “No woman has ever been as honest or as loyal to me as you have been, without conditions, without contracts. My own mother has spent a lifetime devoted to my father despite everything. I never understood that kind of loyalty until you.”
Tears sting my eyes again, but these are different—warm with something that feels dangerously like happiness. His thumb swipes across my cheek, catching another tear.
“I’ve tried so damn hard not to become my father,” he continues, his voice rough with emotion. “Controlling. Distant. Seeing people as pieces on a chessboard. But I did anyway. I became him. I hurt you. I hurt everyone.”
I don’t think. I just reach for him, my arms winding around his neck as he bends down and pulls me against his chest. His lips press to my forehead, firm and lingering, like he’s holding on to something fragile.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his breath stirring my hair. “For everything.”
I squeeze him tighter, pressing my face into the curve of his neck.
“Who are you?” I murmur, half laughing, half sobbing. “What did you do with Konstantin Belov?”
His chest vibrates with a low, husky laugh. “Thank you,” he says, voice rough and raw. And I know what he means.
Thank you for fighting for the children. Thank you for fighting for me.
My heart hammers against my ribs, wild and reckless. This is what it feels like—to fall without a safety net, to finally leap into the unknown.
“Konstantin…” My voice trembles, and I force myself to keep looking at him, even as my throat tightens. “I love you.”
His eyes go dark, intense, and he just stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then he cups my face, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw.
“And I love you,” he says, voice dropping to a rasp. “Kiska.”
Before I can take another breath, his mouth is on mine—firm and claiming, his hand threading through my hair, holding me to him like he can’t bear to let go. The kiss is soft, then rough, then desperate, like he’s trying to pour everything he can’t say into me.
When he finally pulls back, our foreheads are pressed together, breaths mingling. He swipes his thumb under my eye, catching another tear.
“You love me?” he says, brow lifting. “Then stop worrying so much. You just woke up. You’re supposed to be resting, not overthinking everything.”
I choke out a laugh, swatting his shoulder weakly. “Sorry. Just thought I’d check in, seeing as you’re hovering over me like a Russian vulture.”
“Vulture?” he scoffs, but his eyes are warm, that rare, crooked smile tugging at his lips.
“Okay. More like an overbearing dictator in blood-stained Armani,” I mutter.
His smile widens, and then he leans down and kisses me again—softer this time, lingering, like he’s got all the time in the world to memorize my lips.
A beat passes, and the silence settles over us, thick and heavy. The question slips out before I can stop it.
“And Irina?”
Something shifts in his expression—a complicated emotion I can’t quite read.
“Alive. Recovering. And gone.”
“Gone?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress slightly.
“I gave her what she wanted—money. Enough to disappear permanently. She’s been warned never to contact the children again.”
I study his face, looking for the cold calculation I’m used to seeing when he discusses business. Instead, I find something closer to resignation.
“You didn’t kill her,” I say quietly.
