“I don’t feel strong. I feel terrified and in love and completely out of my depth.”
“Welcome to my world.” I press a kiss to her temple. “I’ve felt that way since the moment you walked back into my life.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then: “Do you ever regret forcing this marriage instead of just letting me go?”
“Every day.”
Her head snaps up, hurt flashing across her face.
“I regret that I had to force it,” I clarify. “I regret that circumstances made this necessary instead of chosen. I regret that you’ll always wonder if what we have is real or just survival instinct dressed up as love.” I tilt her face up. “I don’t regret having you. Never that.”
“Even knowing I tried to destroy you once? Knowing I considered doing it again?”
“You didn’t do it. That’s what matters.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “You had every reason, every justification, every opportunity—and you chose me anyway. That’s not weakness, Janice. That’s strength I didn’t know you had.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Maybe both.”
She laughs, the sound soft and genuine. Misha makes an annoyed sound at being jostled, then settles back to sleep.
“She’s spoiled,” Janice observes.
“Completely. Your fault.”
“You’re the one who feeds her from the table.”
“She looks at me with those eyes. What am I supposed to do?”
“Have self-control?” She’s smiling now, tension easing from her shoulders. “You’re a ruthless underboss who commands respect through fear. A kitten shouldn’t be able to manipulate you.”
“She’s not just any kitten. She’s ours.” The possessive comes naturally. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you sneak her treats when you think I’m not looking.”
“She deserves treats. She’s been through trauma.”
“So have you. Should I start sneaking you treats?”
Her smile turns wicked. “Depends on the treat.”
Heat flares low in my gut. “Careful. Keep looking at me like that and Misha is getting relocated to the guest room.”
“She’ll be offended.”
“She’ll survive.”
Janice laughs again, and the sound fills something in my chest that’s been empty for longer than I care to admit. This—casual affection, playful banter, the comfortable domesticity of arguing about a spoiled kitten—this is what I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.
The next few days pass in careful normalcy. Janice moves through the penthouse with renewed confidence, the weight of deception lifted now that everything is out in the open. She still argues with me, still pushes back on restrictions, still asserts independence in ways that earn respect from my men.
There’s a difference now. An ease that wasn’t there before. She’s not performing or pretending or holding parts of herself back.
She’s present. Completely.
I catch myself watching her more than I should—the way she handles Misha with gentle confidence, the way she reviews contracts I leave out without being asked, the way she navigates conversations with Felix and Oleg like she’s always belonged in those rooms.
She’s not playing at being a Bratva wife anymore. She is one.
Three days after her final refusal message, I’m working in my study when Janice bursts through the door, Misha limp in her arms.
