Page 144 of His Eternal Claim

Judas Romanovski walks onto the terrace, looking too comfortable for a man who technically shouldn’t exist on a map. He’s carrying on his shoulders a two-year-old boy who looks exactly like him—same arrogant smirk, same lethal pale eyes. Walking beside him is his wife, holding the hand of their two-year-old daughter.

“You’re early, Romanovski,” I say, my voice dry enough to catch fire. “And your security perimeter was sloppy. My snipers had a red dot on your forehead for three miles.”

“They wouldn’t shoot,” Judas replies, lifting his son off his shoulders and dropping him onto the grass. “My men would burn your villa down, and you’re too soft now to handle the property damage.”

He steps closer, his arm sliding around his wife’s waist, his thumb hooking into the low dip of her dress, dragging her hip flush against his. He presses a kiss to the side of her jaw, his eyes locked on mine. “Besides, I brought the good Scotch.”

Seraphina rolls her eyes, slapping his chest lightly but staying melted against his side. “Ignore him, please. He’s been insufferable since we left Moscow.” She breaks away from his grip with a warm smile as she walks over to Selene, her eyes instantly dropping to the curve of my wife’s stomach. “Oh, look at you. You’re blooming.”

“I’m heavy,” Selene corrects, standing up with a smile that actually reaches her eyes. The two women fall into conversation.

Judas walks over to the outdoor bar, pouring two glasses of the strongest whiskey I have without asking. He hands one to me, his smirk fading into an expression of a man who still controls the shadows of the Russian Bratva.

“The transfers cleared this morning,” Judas says softly, his eyes tracking his wife across the terrace. “The Davenport holdings are dissolved into the Scottish shell companies. The feds closed the file yesterday. They think the money vanished into a black hole.”

“It did,” I say, taking a slow sip of the burning liquid. “A black hole named Selene Vitale.”

“The rogue men from Vane’s outer circle?” Judas asks, tilting his glass. “Two of them tried to set up a pipeline in Marseilles last week.”

“They won’t make it to next week,” I reply, my voice devoid of any emotion. “Kyle handled the coordinates. The federal task force raided their warehouse six hours ago. They’ll be spending the next thirty years in a concrete box.”

Judas lets out a short, dark laugh. “You really are a bastard, Vitale. Turning the government into your personal hit squad.”

“It’s efficient,” I say, my gaze drifting back to Selene. She’s laughing at something Seraphina said, her hand resting comfortably over our baby. There is a slight shadow under her eyes, but she is alive. She is smiling. She is mine.

Judas tracks my look, his features softening into a rare moment of understanding. He taps his glass against mine. “To the ruins,” he murmurs.

“To the ashes,” I correct.

Judas walks back toward his wife, his hand immediately finding the small of her back, his fingers digging in as he whispers something in her ear that makes her blush and swat him away.

I set my glass down on the stone counter and walk back toward the edge of the terrace where Selene is standing, watching the sun dip into the sea. I step into her space, my chest pressing against her back, my arms wrapping around her waist to pull her back against me.

She lets out a sigh that vibrates through my ribs, her hands covering mine over her womb.

“They’re a chaotic family,” she whispers, leaning her head against my chest.

“They’re annoying,” I correct, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “But they’re leaving in three hours. And I’ll spend the night reminding you exactly who owns every single inch of this beautiful body.”

Selene turns slightly in my arms, her fingers curling into the collar of my shirt, her dark eyes flashing with the fire I bled for.

Her gaze drifts, just for a second, toward the children playing, and while she watches the boy, a very familiar look crosses her face. The one we never talk about.

“Do you ever think about it?” she asks.

My expression softens. “Every day.”

“What he’d be like.”

I lower my head, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Stubborn.”

She snorts. “That comes from you.”

“Impossible.”

“Zagreus.”

“Fine. Mostly from me.”