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He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

We didn’t need to.

In that moment, in the quiet aftermath of everything we’d survived, nothing else mattered.

We were husband and wife.

King and queen.

And no one would ever come between us again.

EPILOGUE

Nikolai

The Iron Wolf was closed for the night.

No lights on outside. No staff lingering behind the bar. Just the smell of old smoke and wood polish, and the sound of a half-full bottle of vodka being passed between me and my brothers.

We sat in the back room. No music played. No one talked louder than they had to.

It was five days after the wedding.

Five days since I’d put a ring on Sloane’s finger. The wedding headlines were still rolling in. Some tried to spin it as some sort of criminal conspiracy. Others were smart enough not to.

Stillwell had been processed within hours of his arrest. The judge—one of ours—ruled within the day that there would be no bail, no leniency, no room for negotiation. The charges were airtight, the media pressure relentless, and the evidence too damning to spin. He was sent to federal holding that same night.

We already had a man inside, a Bratva loyalist doing life in a federal facility for a body count too high to print. Stillwell was placed in the same block. I didn’t have to say much. Just one detail:he touched my girl.

That was all it took.

Two days later, Stillwell was found in his cell with broken ribs, snapped fingers, a shattered trachea, and a broken nose. The report called it an altercation. There weren’t any cameras. There weren’t any witnesses either. They had no case. Just a dead man with the wrong enemies. As far as I was concerned, justice had been done. He put his hands on what wasmine.

The underground fighting circuit was back on, as planned. No delays, no noise, no interruptions, just the way I liked it. The next fight was already locked in. Additionally, I had a fight coming up in less than two weeks, and I welcomed it.

But here, in this room, none of that mattered.

This was a time for my brothers and me to get together, drink, and shoot the shit.

Business first though, as always.

Maxim sat across from me, sleeves rolled up, drink in his hand. His wedding band glinted faintly when he scratched his jaw, something thoughtful pulling at the edge of his mouth.

“We’ve absorbed most of Stillwell’s channels,” he said, setting his glass down. “Discreetly. No blowback yet. The political vacuum’s starting to pull in a few names, but no one with real teeth.”

Ivan didn’t look up. “There’s one potential challenger. Carrington. Backed by private finance, but shallow. If he makes a move, I can push a file that’ll bury him in three hours.”

“Do it anyway,” I said.

Maxim nodded once, satisfied.

I ran a hand over my jaw, then took a sip of my drink. Then Maxim met my eye, and I swore I saw the twinkle of something playful in his.

I raised a brow in his direction before he smirked.

“What?” I asked.