Page 143 of Beautiful Secrets

Goosebumps break out over my arms, but I barely have time to register what he’s just told me before he sits forward and urges me to my feet.

“Wha—”

He turns, drops to one knee and holds up the ring like I’ve gone blind and might miss it.

“Now…” He clears his throat and gives me a narrow-eyed glare. “Mika, you stubborn-ass woman, are you going to marry me or not?”

Epilogue

Ilove Christmas, but not in the traditional sense. In my past, there were never presents, and extended family, and a massive meal that left us pounds heavier than we started the day kind of bullshit.

When Kill and I were kids, Dad would drink himself into a stupor on Christmas Eve—sometimes not even come home—leaving Kill and me to our own devices on Christmas Day.

So we’d get up to mischief.

Shit loads of it.

Better than presents, those memories.

So whenever I see the decorations start going up in the shops, and the special lights strung up in town, and start hearing Christmas songs on the PA system in malls…I start getting this build-up of energy inside me.

What shit were we going to get up to this year? Stealing a reindeer from a nativity scene? Breaking into a bakery and stealing all their Christmas pies? Or were we keeping it low key this year and just trying to get our hands on some fireworks?

In Blackmoore, Christmas was a pathetic affair. Red and green Jell-O. Paper hats. Crackers. Ham on the menu—but nothing close to an actual Christmas spread.

Then again—I wouldn’t even know what that looks like, would I?

This is my first real Christmas dinner…and it’s the furthest thing from traditional. At least, in Scotland.

First off—it’s the seventh of January, not December. But that, apparently, has always been the case.

We’re at the Vasiliev estate today, celebrating Christmas with Mika’s family. Even Kill and Meisie came along, I’m guessing simply because neither of them has ever attended a Russian Christmas, and with three mouths to feed, free food is always welcome.

We’re in the drawing room, waiting for the dining room to be prepped with the feast.

I’m fucking starving.

Mika and I have been fasting for forty days—surviving on veggies and starch the entire time—except for the weekends when we could have fish.

Never loved fish, but Christ, I’m convinced it’s the only thing that saw me through.

I’m ready to devour anything that contains even a trace of red meat.

But first we’re being put through a veritable circus show of weird traditions and rituals. I never knew fortune-telling was such a big thing—especially around the holidays.

“Your turn,” Mika says, nudging me with her elbow.

I’d been daydreaming about roast again. I come back to the present with a grunt, and stare at the tray Mika’s mother is holding out to me. It’s clustered with cups—some already missing—with an upturned saucer balanced on each so I can’t see what’s inside.

“Hurry up, young man,” Sonya says. “Or we will never eat.”

I let out a huff of a laugh. Guess fasting never gets easier—even if you have years of it under your belt. I grab a random cup and lift the saucer.

It’s filled with water.

Mika mentioned some of the outcomes while Sonya was setting up. An onion predicts a year full of tears. Bread means abundance. Salt…difficult times. Don’t know what water means. Wet diapers?

When I turn to look at Mika, she’s beaming at me.