Page 115 of Cruel Submission

But it’s the one I can give her and keep her breathing.

My phone buzzes. Text from reception: the wedding planner has arrived.

I pour one more measure of whiskey. I don’t drink it. Just hold the glass and watch the light fracture through the amber.

Some men write their wedding vows in poetry.

I write mine in extraction protocols and kill zones.

But the promise underneath is the same: I will keep you safe. I will love you with everything I have left. And I will end anyone who tries to take you from me—no matter who it is.

I set down the glass and head for the door.

Time to plan a wedding in the shadow of war.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Arkady

The bedroom is dark and silent.

Mirabel shifts beside me, her back to my chest, her leg draped across my thigh. Even heavily pregnant, she fits against me like she was made for this configuration. My palm rests across the swell of her belly where our baby sleeps.

I haven’t slept. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see the engagement party: muzzle flashes in the garden, Dmitri’s body folding as the bullet tears through him, my father’s face in the Dragunov’s scope. My finger on the trigger. Not firing.

Four days since the attack. Four days of reinforced perimeter sweeps, background checks on every vendor who touched the property, and enough security briefings to make my teeth ache. But this—Mirabel breathing slow and even against me—this is the first time the noise in my skull has dropped below a roar.

She’s not asleep either. I can tell by the way she’s holding herself, too still, her breathing too measured.

“Can we talk about what happened at the party?” Her voice filters through the dark, low and careful.

There it is. The conversation we’ve been circling.

I don’t answer immediately. I run my thumb along the curve of her hip, feeling the new weight pregnancy has added to her frame. She’s rounder now, softer. I love it.

“We haven’t really talked about it since it happened,” she continues. “I know you’ve been busy with security, but—”

“It was expected.” The words come out flat. I soften them by pressing my lips to the curve of her shoulder, tasting salt and the faint remnant of her citrus body wash. “The reason he couldn’t get through the gate was that I had the best security money can buy. Military-grade surveillance. Kill zones marked to the centimeter. Men who shoot first and check credentials never.”

“He still came.” She turns in my arms, and now we’re face to face. Her eyes find mine. “He brought guns to our engagement party, Arkady.”

“Da. He did.” I trace the line of her jaw with my knuckles. “And he left in a convoy with five fewer men than he arrived with. That’s the language he understands. Force met with superior force.”

“Debra.” Mirabel’s hand comes up to cover mine. “She’s terrified. Every time a car door slams or someone walks too heavily down the hall, she flinches. I can see her disappearing back into herself.”

“Debra is protected. Twenty-four-hour armed security. Yanis barely leaves her side.” I stop. Swallow. “And my father knows that if he touches her again, if he so much as breathes in her direction, I will end him.”

“You had him in your scope.” She says it quietly. Not harsh. Just factual. “Stefan told me.”

Blyad. Of course Stefan told her.

“I did. Clean shot. Wind was minimal. Well within range.” I pull her closer, needing the contact. “I didn’t take it.”

“What made you stop?”

The question I’ve been asking myself for three days.

“Killing him in front of sixty guests would have turned our engagement into a scene you’d remember every time you looked at your wedding ring. Because Dmitri was already dead and adding one more body wouldn’t bring him back.”