She squeezes my hand. “Then you’ll make the right decision. You always do.”
I huff out a breath, not quite a laugh but close. “I’m not sure about that.”
“I am,” she says softly, sliding closer until her thigh presses to mine. “I trust you.”
Something in me cracks open at the words, not painfully, but with a heat that spreads across my ribcage, something I didn’t expect to feel again after years of not letting myself feel anything like it.
I lean in first this time.
Her mouth is soft and warm against mine, her hands sliding up my chest and curling at the base of my neck like she doesn’t want even a breath of space between us. I pull her into my lap, my hands gripping her waist, her thighs tightening around my hips, and the kiss deepens instantly—hungry, slow, full of everything we didn’t have time to say this morning.
She melts into me, fingers threading through my hair, her breath catching when I slide my hands beneath her thighs to pull her even closer. Her lips part for me, and the quiet sound she makes when I kiss her deeper shoots straight through me, settling low and heavy in my stomach.
When she pulls back just enough to breathe, her forehead rests against mine. “I can’t wait to marry you,” she whispers.
I feel my pulse stutter once.
Then I kiss her again, slow and certain, because out of everything that’s happened today—my father, Boris, the gun, the betrayal, the threat, the choices—this is the one truth I want to hold.
“I can’t wait either,” I say against her mouth, my hands holding her like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. “You’re it for me, Kira.”
Her breath hitches.
I kiss her again, pulling her close, letting everything else fall away, and for the first time in a long time, the world around us feels quiet, safe, and finally, finally ours.
EPILOGUE
Artyom
One week later…
The morning light spills across the studio floor in a long pale streak that catches on the metal frames leaned against the far wall, and even though the room looks exactly the same as it always does, I feel different, wired from the decisions that dragged me out of bed before dawn and pushed aside every instinct that told me to stay with Kira for a few more minutes.
I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours, and while she was lying warm and quiet against me, breathing in that steady way that always calms something in my chest, I was already planning this meeting, thinking about the phone calls I had to make, already choosing this room over anywhere else because I wanted my father and Boris to understand, without a single word, that the balance has shifted and we are doing this on my ground, not theirs.
I called my father earlier, told him to come to my office, and he didn’t question it, which tells me he already sensed somethingwas coming. I called Boris next, keeping the same tone, making sure he heard exactly what I wasn’t saying, because after what he did in the park, he doesn’t get to assume he’s safe just because he’s injured.
The knock on the sliding metal door comes exactly when I expect it, and a moment later Vladimir steps inside with that familiar controlled posture of his, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders set in that quiet authority he carries like a second skin. Boris follows half a step behind him with his arm in a sling and his jaw still bruised from where it met the bench, his expression tight with the mix of humiliation and stubbornness.
I don’t offer either of them a seat and I don’t bother pretending this is a polite conversation.
“I want you both to listen,” I say, leaning back against the edge of my desk, my arms crossed over my chest. “And I want you to understand that what I’m about to say isn’t a negotiation.”
Vladimir’s eyes sharpen, but he stays silent. He knows the power has shifted.
Boris doesn’t know better. He shifts his weight, jaw ticking. “What reason could you have for dragging us all the way?—”
“For the future of our families,” I cut in, not raising my voice, because I don’t need to. “And for the alliance you two nearly destroyed last week.”
Boris stiffens. Vladimir glances at him, the smallest flash of irritation crossing his face. I let the silence stretch long enough that they both feel the weight of it.
Then I say it. “Mikhail will marry Irina.”
Boris reacts first, his shoulders relaxing in a long breath, the kind men exhale when they think the world has just fallen neatly into their hands. He nods once, like it’s what he expected all along. Vladimir watches me more carefully, his expression unreadable.
“I see,” he says.
“You’re going to keep the alliance with their family,” I continue, “and you won’t touch Kira again. You won’t bring up her name. You won’t look in her direction. You won’t even breathe in her direction.”
