Page 231 of Celestial Combat

A rustle caught my attention.

I shook the small bag of treats in my hand, and like a shot of ink across the hardwood, Mochi came flying through the loft like thunder. A black blur with green eyes and no grace whatsoever. I laughed as he skidded across the floor, his tiny claws scrambling for traction.

He crashed into my ankle and meowed like I owed him something, so I crouched and handed him a treat, brushing his fur behind his ears.

Zane had picked him out, a rescue from the shelter. Mochi also wore a little red bowtie that Zane had bought him.

I stood slowly and leaned against the kitchen counter, watching the sun through the high windows, faint jazz drifting from the record player, the soft pad of cat paws disappearing into a pile of bubble wrap.

My entire life had changed. But somehow, this moment – this quiet, this stillness – felt like it had always been waiting for me. Waiting for us.

And we’d earned it.

Zane appeared from the other side of the loft, shirt slightly damp from lifting boxes, hair tousled. “I swear, he responds faster to snacks than to either of us calling his name.”

“That’s becauseyoulet him sleep on our bed the first night,” I said, dropping a treat onto the floor. Mochi pounced like he was hunting prey.

Zane leaned on the counter, watching the scene with a soft smirk. “You tucked him in like a child and then spent twenty minutes Googling if cats can have nightmares.”

“I was being thorough,” I said, tossing him a playful glare before sitting on one of the bar stools. “Also, I can’t believe you actually bought him a bowtie collar. You’re so cute and sentimental.”

“Every man in this house needs to dress well.”

Mochi meowed dramatically at our feet, demanding another treat.

“God, he’s such a little diva.”

“He fits right in,” Zane said with a smirk.

I turned to look at him. “Us. A cat. A Brooklyn loft. Kinda feels like… Real life.”

Zane’s smile softened. “That’s because it is.”

And for once, I believed it.

The loft glowed with golden warmth, the kitchen lit by the low pendant lights Zane had dimmed just enough to make the space feel soft, intimate. Snow feathered against the tall windows like whispers, muffling the Brooklyn streets below. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary hung in the air, wrapping around us like a blanket. I’d gone all out – linen napkins, wine glasses that actually matched, and the little ceramic plates I’d been saving for a real occasion.

Aleksandr leaned back in the leather dining chair, a half-smile pulling at the edge of his mouth as he cradled Mochi in his lap.

“This meal,” he said in his deep, accented voice, “Makes me wish I’d moved to America sooner.”

I grinned as I refilled his glass. “It’s Zane’s recipe. I just made it better.”

Zane, sitting across from me, shot me a look over the rim of his glass. “That’s slander.”

“Truth,” I said sweetly.

Aleksandr chuckled – an honest, belly-deep laugh. It always surprised me how gentle it sounded, given how many rumors had followed this man like shadows for decades. Bratva underboss. Ghost of Siberia. Blooded hands. But tonight, he looked like someone’s cool uncle, in a black cashmere sweater and jeans, freshly shaved, even wearing a watch that I swear Zane gave him.

“New York’s treating you well?” I asked, slicing another piece of the garlic butter steak for him.

He nodded slowly. “Surprisingly. I thought I would miss the snow. Turns out, I don’t. I walk in the park now. I see art. I watch cooking shows. Who the hell am I?”

Zane raised a brow. “Wait. Which one?”

“Whichever one makes fun of people the most,” Aleksandr replied. “That angry chef reminds me of an old captain I once served under. All yelling, no bullets.”

I laughed as I sipped my wine. “So, you’re happy here?”