Page 26

Epilogue: Six Months Later

Kira

T he silk of my dress slides against my skin as I smooth it over the curve of my belly, seven months full with Mikhail's child.

The Tulum sun filters through the gauze curtains of our private villa, casting everything in honeyed light that makes the white stone walls glow like pearls.

Salt air drifts through the open terrace doors, carrying the distant sound of waves and the faint music of preparation from the main estate where Inez and Vanya's wedding will unfold in mere hours.

I pause before the mirror, my fingers tracing the emerald necklace Mikhail fastened around my throat this morning, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle against my nape.

The stones are cool against my heated skin, a stark contrast to the warmth pooling low in my belly—not from the baby, but from the memory of his lips brushing my shoulder as he whispered how beautiful I looked.

"You're thinking too hard, kisa ." His voice rumbles from the doorway, rough with that Brooklyn edge that still makes my pulse quicken after all this time.

I meet his eyes in the mirror—those piercing blue depths that first terrified me are now my sanctuary. "I'm thinking about them. Inez and Vanya." I turn to face him, the silk catching the light. "Two alphas, both used to commanding, both forced into this arrangement. How does it work?"

Mikhail steps closer, his presence filling the space between us like smoke. The white linen shirt he wears is unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the edge of his tattoos, and I can smell his cologne mixed with something darker, more primal. "You questioning arranged marriages now, Mrs. Zhukov?"

The teasing note in his voice doesn't mask the intensity in his gaze as it travels over me, lingering on the swell of our child.

I shake my head, letting my fingers drift to my belly. "Not questioning ours. Just wondering if they'll find what we did."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips as he crosses the room, a predator in repose. His hands, instruments of both violence and tenderness, cradle my face.

"Not everyone gets lucky," he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip. "Most unions like ours remain what they are—transactions."

The baby kicks against my ribs as if in protest of his cynicism. I place his palm against the movement. "Feel that? We weren’t just a contract."

His eyes soften, something raw and unguarded flickering across his features. These are the moments I treasure—when the mask slips and I glimpse the man beneath the monster others fear.

"No," he agrees, voice rough. "You two were the fine print I never read."

The air between us thickens with unspoken words. Our beginning wasn't gentle—a bride offered as collateral, a groom with a heart frozen by grief. Neither of us expected this transformation.

"Inez is stronger than she looks," I say, turning back to the mirror to fasten diamond studs to my ears. "And Vanya... he's not you."

Mikhail's reflection darkens. "No one is me, kisa ."

The possessive growl in his voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. "That's not what I meant. Vanya follows orders. You never did, not really."

He moves behind me, hands settling on my hips, chin resting atop my head. "My father would disagree."

"Your father sees what you allow him to see."

"We should go," I whisper, though I'd rather stay cocooned in our villa, away from the politics and performances that await us at the main house. "Your father will be looking for you."

"Let him look." Mikhail's lips brush my temple. "Dmitri Zhukov can wait. The world can wait."

For a moment, I believe him—that we exist outside the gravity of his family's empire, that our love is stronger than the blood ties that bind him. But I know better. The Bratva is his inheritance, just as this child is ours.

"The world never waits," I counter softly, turning in his arms. "Not even for Mikhail Zhukov."

His laugh is a low rumble against my chest. "No? Then perhaps I should make it."

Before I can respond, he captures my mouth in a kiss that tastes of possession of the man I feared becoming the one I can't live without. My fingers curl into his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the thin fabric, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my palm.

When we finally break apart, my lips are swollen, and my carefully applied lipstick has transferred to his mouth—a mark of ownership that sends heat spiraling through me despite my condition.

"Now I need to fix my makeup," I breathe but make no move to step away from the circle of his arms.

"Leave it." His thumb traces the corner of my mouth. "Let them see what I do to you."

The heat in his words makes my cheeks flush, and I wonder if this is how it will always be between us—this constant pull, this electricity that crackles even in the most mundane moments. Seven months pregnant, and I still feel like a schoolgirl when he looks at me like that.

"We're going to be late," I say, but my hands betray me, sliding up his chest to his shoulders. My fingers find the nape of his neck, threading through the short hair there.

"Late is a matter of perspective." His voice drops an octave, the sound vibrating against my skin as his lips find my neck. "When you're the boss, everyone waits."

I tilt my head, giving him better access, and close my eyes as his teeth graze the sensitive spot below my ear. "And what about when you're the boss's son?"

His laugh is dark velvet against my throat. "Then you make them wait even longer."

My protest dissolves into a sigh as his hands slide around to the small of my back, drawing me closer despite the roundness between us. The baby shifts, pressing against my ribs as if making room for its father's embrace.

"Mikhail," I breathe, but it's not a rejection. My fingers curl into his shirt, wrinkling the pristine linen. "The ceremony..."

"Can start without us." His mouth claims mine again, hungrier this time, demanding in a way that makes my knees weak.

I surrender to it, to him, to the heat that blooms beneath my skin despite the impracticality of it all. His hands are everywhere—cupping my face, skimming my sides, cradling my belly with a reverence that makes my heart ache.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Mikhail's forehead rests against mine, our shared air warm and intimate.

"We really do need to go," I whisper, though my body protests the very idea. "I promised Inez I'd help with her veil."

Mikhail sighs, his breath fanning across my lips. "Fine. But tonight..." His eyes, darkened to stormy blue, promise things that make my pulse quicken.

"Tonight," I agree, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth before reluctantly extracting myself from his arms.

I smooth my dress, now more rumpled than before, and glance at the clock on the bedside table. "We're officially fifteen minutes late."

"Worth it." His smile is wolfish as he wipes a smudge of my lipstick from his mouth.

I roll my eyes but can't suppress my own smile as I reapply my makeup at the vanity. In the mirror, I watch him straighten his tie, the casual efficiency of his movements a reminder of the controlled power that lives in every line of his body.

"Do you think they'll be happy?" I ask suddenly, the question escaping before I can contain it.

Mikhail pauses, his eyes meeting mine in the reflection. "Vanya and Inez?"

I nod, pressing my lips together to even out the fresh coat of color. "I hope they find what we did. That they stop fighting long enough to see each other."

He comes to stand behind me again, his hands settling on my shoulders. "Not everyone gets our ending, kisa ."

"It's not an ending," I correct him softly. "It's a beginning. Every day with you is a beginning."

Something shifts in his expression, a softening around the edges that few besides me ever witness. He bends to press his lips to the crown of my head.

"When did you become so wise?" he murmurs against my hair.

I smile, reaching up to cover one of his hands with mine. "I was born wise, and don’t you forget it."

His laugh is genuine this time, rumbling through his chest and into mine. "Come on, then. Let's go watch this train wreck of a wedding."

"Mikhail!" I protest but laugh as he helps me to my feet. "Don't jinx them. I hope they settle their battle of wills and fall in love, just like we did."

His expression sobers, just for a moment, and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising tenderness. "There's only one Kira Malakhov in this world. Vanya will have to find his own miracle."

The words wash over me, warm as the Tulum sun. I take his arm, feeling the solid strength of him beside me as we step out into the afternoon light, heading toward the celebration of another union born of duty rather than desire.

But as Mikhail's hand covers mine where it rests in the crook of his elbow, I can't help but hope that Inez and Vanya discover what we know now—that sometimes, the coldest arrangements can forge the hottest flames.