I’ve never said those words. Not to my mother before she died. Not to my father, who bled out for Igor’s mistakes. Not to anyone in this godforsaken brotherhood.
But I’m in love with this woman.
I don’t say it. Can’t. The words would break something between us that’s already fragile enough.
My hand moves from her wrist to her jaw. Not rough. Firm. Grounding.
“So… you just decided that this is our decision?” she whispers, a tiny spark of disbelief beneath the fear.
“I did.” I lean in closer, my breath brushing her lips. “Someone had to.”
Her eyes flick toward the door, then back to me, like she’s looking for an escape route she already knows she won’t take.
“God, you’re so bossy,” she mutters under her breath.
I almost smile.
“This is mine.” My other hand brushes her stomach through the blanket. Flat. Warm. Alive. “You’re mine. That doesn’t change because you’re scared.”
She’s shaking. From fear, from exhaustion—I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter.
I tilt her chin up, force her to meet my eyes. “Even if you decide you don’t want me in your life, you’ll never get rid of me. I’ll always be right here.” My thumb drags slowly over her jaw, down to her throat. “In your head. In your blood. In every fucking thing you touch.”
Her lips part, a shaky breath slipping out.
“I want—” she starts.
“I know what you want.” My eyes lock on hers. “You want to run. You want your old life back.”
Pause.
“You’re not getting it.”
Her breath stutters. “Anton—”
“You shot a man for me. You bled for me.” My grip tightens on her jaw. Just enough. “You think I’m letting you walk away now? While you’re carrying my child?”
She stares at me. Silent. Tears still wet on her cheeks.
“You’re permanent, Mary. Whether you like it or not.”
Her hand shoots up.
Slaps right over my mouth.
I freeze.
She’s glaring at me. Eyes red from crying but sharp. Focused.
“Let me talk, Anton.” Her voice is hoarse but steady. No tremor. No hesitation.
My jaw tightens under her palm.
She doesn’t move her hand. Just stares at me. Waiting.
After a long moment, I nod once.
Her hand slides from my mouth, down my jaw, tracing the stubble there before she finds my wrist. She grabs it—small fingers, steady grip—and pulls it toward her.
