Page 25 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Anton reaches for the letter, reads it beside me in silence.

His breath hitches. Then he laughs—a broken, aching sound.

“She knew,” he whispers. “She always knew.”

I look up. “Knew what?”

“What I was planning.”

“I never told her,” I say with confusion. “She knew I loved you. She gave you this box this morning?”

He nods. “Yes. Before?—”

He looks down.

“Before I told Dmitri I could never see you again.”

He looks into my eyes.

"I'm so sorry," I sob, the words tumbling out between broken breaths. "I'm so sorry I hurt you. I wanted to protect you, but I said such horrible things?—"

"Shh." His voice is gentle as he pulls me closer, careful of my bandaged arm. "I know, solnyshko . I know."

"It's not okay," I cry harder, my tears soaking into his torn shirt. "The things I said to you—about you not being able to give me what I deserve, about only wanting a palace?—"

"I knew you didn't mean it." His hand strokes my hair. "I could feel your pain through every word."

"But how could Mikhail have known?" The question tears from my throat. "How did he know exactly what would hurt you most?"

Anton's jaw tightens. "Because he's been watching us. Photographing us. From the beginning." His voice turns cold, deadly. "Mikhail was the one sending those pictures."

Horror washes over me like ice water. "What?"

"Every moment we thought was private, every touch, every kiss—he was watching. Recording."

I feel sick. Violated in a way that makes my skin crawl. "That's disgusting. Why would he?—"

"Control. Power." Anton's eyes burn with rage. "He wanted me to fall in love with you so he could rip you away. Make it hurt more."

The violation cuts deeper than any physical wound. "He watched us in the chapel?"

"Yes."

"In your room? When we?—"

"Yes."

I'm going to be sick. The thought of Mikhail's eyes on us during our most intimate moments makes bile rise in my throat.

"He told me..." Anton's voice drops to barely a whisper. "He said he'd already been with you. This morning. Before the wedding."

The world tilts. "What?"

"He said you came to him. Begged him. That you—" Anton can't finish.

"No." The word explodes from me with such force that Anton jerks back. "No, never. I never touched him. Not once. He's lying."

Relief floods Anton's features, but I can see the lingering doubt, the way Mikhail's poison has wormed its way into his mind.

"I swear to you on my grandmother's grave," I say, grabbing his face with my good hand. "I have never been with him. Never. The only man I've ever want, ever loved, is you."

"I know," he breathes. "I know, but hearing him say it?—"

"He's a monster," I whisper. "And monsters lie."

He returns his attention to the box, picking up another photo. He stares at it for a long time. “This was just before.”

He doesn’t have to tell me just before what.

I know.

The boy in the picture looks around five.

So young.

So innocent.

To know that beautiful boy had nearly been murdered at his father’s hands infuriates me. I want to pull him close and fight every demon for him.

“There are no pictures of Vadim,” he says.

“Did you expect there to be?”

"No," he says quietly. "He was never part of our life. Even before he tried to kill us."

I watch him sort through more photographs. His mother pregnant, glowing with happiness. A baby's first steps. Birthday parties with other children I don't recognize. A life that was stolen from him.

"She kept everything," I whisper.

"Your mother did this. She preserved it all." His voice cracks slightly. "Why?"

I think about my mother's words. Her cryptic comments about having faith. The way she lowered her gun and let us go.

"Because she loved you," I say simply. "She loved your mother, and she loved you."

He picks up the crocheted angel, turning it over in his scarred hands. One wing is torn, hanging by a thread.

"My mother made this for me when I was sick once. Fever that wouldn't break." His thumb traces the remaining wing. "She said angels watched over little boys who were brave."

My heart shatters completely. This man has been carrying so much pain, so much loss. And somehow, he still found room in his heart for love.

For me.

"You are brave," I tell him. "The bravest man I've ever known."

He sets the angel down carefully and reaches for the music box. When he opens it, a tinkling melody begins to play. Russian lullaby. The notes are broken, some keys missing, but it's hauntingly beautiful.

"She used to play this every night.”

I notice there are some black marks on it. I rub my thumb across the smudges but they don’t come off.

“My mother must have taken these things from the ruins of your home,” I say.

“She’s had this stuff for thirty years,” he says. “I don’t understand.”

Neither did I.

I take the photos from his hand and place them back in the box.

“We need to sleep.”

“You sleep. I’ll be here.”

The couch isn’t big enough for the both of us. I slowly get up and pull the various quilts from around the room and create a bed for us.

“I need you beside me, Anton. Please. Hold me. We’re safe. You said so yourself.”

He looks reluctant but finally takes off his boots and stretches out beside me.

His strong arms hold me close.

We’re both battered and bruised, but I feel whole in his arms.

This is where I was always supposed to be.