Page 182 of Mafia King’s Dangerous Vow

“You won’t be living here.”

“Not tomorrow,” she says. “But eventually.”

Eventually becomes a promise neither of us forces into a vow.

I kiss her again, and this time when she pulls me toward the bedroom, I follow.

EPILOGUE — THE SKY ISN’T READY. (TAMARA)

There are many things I have learned to expect from Aleksander in the past six months. Precision. Control. The dangerous competence of a man who can end a crisis before anyone else notices it started.

But the knocking on my door is what ruins me.

Three firm taps. Then nothing. No key in the lock. No guard announcing him. No assumption that marriage has made my space less mine.

I open the door and find him standing in the hallway with one hand in the pocket of his jeans, his shirt open at the collar, attention fixed on me. He doesn’t speak.

I look down at myself. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

His mouth barely moves. “I was appreciating the dress.”

Six months ago, that almost-smile would’ve felt like a crack in a wall. Now it feels like a private thing he lets me see because he trusts me with it.

“I brought your iced matcha latte.” He holds out a large Starbucks cup. “Which I maintain tastes like grass.”

“You almost had me with this unexpected offering, Aleksander Sokolov,” I tease, taking the sweating drink from his hand. “But then you ruined it by insulting my taste.”

“I’m willing to be thanked anyway.”

I set the cup on the entry table and step closer. His gaze drops to my mouth.

“We’re going to a child’s birthday party,” I remind him weakly.

“I understand the occasion.”

“Then stop looking at me like the occasion can be rescheduled.”

His hand closes at my hip. Familiar in a way that makes my breath accelerate.

“We could be a little late.”

“Sasha.”

“Calling me that isn’t helping.”

His hand slides into my hair, tilting my face up, and mine are already in his shirt, pulling him in. He tastes like coffee and restraint losing an argument. When he pulls back, I’m gripping his shirt with both hands.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“I want to be on time,” I say.

“Then you should stop looking at me like that,” he says.

From the elevator, Mikhail says, “Please don’t let me interrupt the show. But Yuri is grumbling in the car, and I’ve been told nine-year-olds have inflexible opinions about cake timing.”