Page 89 of Forced & Owned By the Bratva Boss

I kiss her hands, too wrapped up in the moment to even speak.

All it takes is one final thrust to send both of us spiraling over the edge, shattering us at the same time.

I groan loudly, throwing my head back as I jerk inside her, spilling my seed between her thighs, and she clings to me, shrieking as she finds her own release.

Audrey slides her arms around my neck and I collapse onto her, covered in sweat and breathing raggedly as she locks us in a hug.

In the quiet of the night, she holds me firmly against her chest and kisses my hair, and I feel her heartbeat against my chest. Our bodies and hearts are completely aligned in the dark, and it warms me to know I get to call her mine in every sense of the word.

It’s real.

It’s mutual.

And it sure as hell will be forever.

The battles outside these walls are over, the terrible memories of our enemies are finally laid to rest, and what remains between us is a love chosen freely at last.

Epilogue

Audrey

The hallways are absolutely quiet, and it’s been like that since Serrano died—the kind of tranquility that follows a total victory.

I walk slowly through the polished marble halls of the mansion, enjoying the rare, undisturbed peace. As I turn the corner toward the kitchen, a blur of dark fabric suddenly barrels right into me.

“Watch it—” a gruff voice starts, but cuts off instantly.

I stumble back a step, blinking up at Sergei, who’s looking like he’s just been caught stealing from the family vault.

In his massive, scarred hands—the same hands I’ve been privileged to see disassemble a rifle in seconds—he’s carefully balancing a small porcelain plate that holds a massive, slightly lopsided slice of blueberry pie.

Sergei freezes, his posture immediately locking into rigid, military perfection.

The terrifying enforcer is suddenly staring at me with wide, slightly panicked eyes, and the dark blue filling of the pie oozes over the crust.

I don’t say anything.

I just stand there, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow at him. He probably expects me to give him a curt nod, ignore him, and brush past, leaving him to find a dark corner to eat his pastry in peace.

Instead, we both stand there, the silence stretching between us until it becomes painfully, comically awkward.

He looks at the pie. Then at me.

He clears his throat. “It is…blueberry,” Sergei mutters, his thick Russian accent making the word sound strangely menacing. He awkwardly thrusts the plate a few inches toward my chest. “You want?”

“Did you bake this, Sergei?” I ask, smiling.

“No,” he says flatly, his jaw tightening. “Anastasia made it. I am…inspecting it.”

“Anastasia? The new maid?” He doesn’t affirm or deny, and I stare at him suspiciously. “Right. Quality control.” I step forward, entirely ignoring the imaginary boundary between us, and lean over the plate.

Without taking it from his hands, I lean in and take a clean, deliberate bite right off the pointed edge of the crust.

Sergei’s eyes go even wider, tracking my jaw as I chew. The sweet, tart flavor bursts across my tongue.

“It’s good,” I pronounce, wiping a smudge of blue from the corner of my mouth. “Flaky crust.”

Sergei stares at the piece of pie, now missing its nose, and then looks back up at me with absolute bewilderment.