Page 40 of Betrayal and Vows (Bratva Vows #2)

Lena

T wo months later, the Rostova estate hums with quiet activity as I stand before the full-length mirror in what used to be my childhood bedroom.

The wedding dress is simple.

The cream-colored silk skims my body without being too tight around my barely visible bump.

At fifteen weeks, I'm just starting to show, a small curve that makes me smile every time I catch sight of it.

And Anton can’t keep his hands off the bump. He marvels at the thought of his son or daughter growing in my belly.

If I thought he was protective before, I couldn’t have begun to imagine how protective he would be now that I’m pregnant.

"You look beautiful," Kira breathes from behind me, adjusting the delicate lace veil that belonged to my mother. Elena had saved it all these years, wrapped in tissue paper and hidden away like a prayer for the future.

Initially, she wanted to burn it.

Destroy every last bit of connection to her wedding.

But not me.

I want to give the veil new memories.

I want to pass it down to my daughter one day.

The veil is special because Irina had made it for her.

It’s my connection to Anton’s mother.

"Radiant," Anastasia adds, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "Absolutely radiant."

I smooth my hands over the silk, feeling the subtle swell of our baby beneath my palms. Anton doesn't know yet that I've felt the first flutters of movement—tiny bubbles of sensation that could be the baby or could be nerves.

I want to tell him on our wedding night, when we're alone and this is finally real.

"Are you ready?" Kira asks softly.

Am I? Two months ago, I watched the man I love die four times. Two months ago, I thought I had lost everything. Now I'm about to marry him in the garden where I used to play as a child, surrounded by people who have become family through blood and choice.

"I'm ready," I say, and I mean it.

The ceremony is small—exactly what we wanted. White chairs arranged in neat rows on the manicured lawn, overlooking the rose garden my grandmother planted decades ago.

Dmitri stands at Anton's side as his best man, looking surprisingly respectable in his tailored black suit.

He's been Anton's constant companion through his recovery, pushing him through physical therapy sessions and making sure he eats enough to regain the weight he lost in the hospital.

Sometimes I think Dmitri cares more about Anton's health than Anton does.

Victor and Anastasia along with Dmitri’s grandmother are the only guests. And my mother, of course.

Mama sits in the front row, beautiful in her navy dress.

There’s a radiant smile lighting her face for the first time in months.

She splits her time between here and Spain now, discovering who she is outside of being Lenoid Rostova's wife.

The change in her is remarkable—she laughs more, speaks her mind freely, even started painting again.

She says Spain is teaching her to live instead of just survive.

"She looks happy," Anton murmurs as we sway to the soft music during our first dance as husband and wife. The small reception is being held on the terrace, string lights twinkling overhead as the sun sets.

"She is happy," I confirm, watching my mother chat animatedly with Kira and Anastasia. "For the first time in nearly thirty years, she's free to make her own choices."

Anton's arms tighten around me carefully. Even two months later, he's still regaining his full strength, though he pushes himself harder every day. The physical therapy sessions are brutal, but he attacks them with the same single-minded determination he once brought to missions.

His goal is simple: be strong enough to protect his family.

"Any regrets?" he asks, his blue eyes searching mine.

"About marrying you? Never." I reach up to straighten his tie, a deep blue that matches his eyes perfectly. "Though I do regret that it took us this long to get here."

"We're here now," he says simply. "That's all that matters."

The playlist Kira put together for us switches to a slow song. I rest my head against Anton's chest. His heartbeat is strong and steady beneath my ear, a sound I never take for granted after hearing the flatline in that hospital room.

We both still have nightmares from that day.

He wakes up in a cold sweat.

I wake up screaming his name.

I pray we will have worked through the nightmares before our child is born. I can’t imagine waking up our baby with my screams.

They are fewer and fewer, but sometimes it feels like I’m right back there in that moment.

"How are you feeling?" I ask. "Honestly."

"Good," he says, then catches my skeptical look. "Really. Better than I have in years. Every day I get a little better.”

Anton has suffered from nightmares since childhood—violent dreams about his mother's death, about the things he was forced to do at the Center. His nightmares have evolved. Maybe one day they will all be gone.

He brushes his lips across my temple. “For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of what tomorrow might bring.

I used to go to sleep wondering if I'd wake up, if someone would finally put a bullet in my head.

Now I wake up excited to see you, to feel the baby kick, to argue with Dmitri about nursery colors. "

The mention of the baby makes me smile. "Speaking of which, he insists we need to start preparing the nursery soon."

"Dmitri doesn't even know what gender the baby is yet."

"That hasn't stopped him from buying things." I laugh, thinking of the pile of packages that arrive daily—toys, clothes, books, everything a child could possibly need. "Yesterday he brought home a rocking horse. A rocking horse, Anton. The baby isn't even born yet."

"He's nesting," Anton says with amusement. "Like a pregnant woman."

"Don't let him hear you say that."

"Too late," Dmitri's voice cuts through our conversation as he approaches with two glasses of champagne—sparkling cider for me. "And for your information, I'm not nesting. I'm preparing. There's a difference."

"What's the difference?" I ask, accepting my glass.

"Nesting is instinctual and messy. Preparing is strategic and organized." He grins. "I’m making sure you two don’t forget anything.”

“We’re the parents,” Anton reminds him.

"I take my uncle duties seriously."

As the evening winds down and our guests begin to leave, I find myself standing at the edge of the terrace, looking out over the grounds. The estate feels different now—not like a prison from my childhood, but like a home we're choosing to build together.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Anton joins me, wrapping his arms around me from behind.

"Just thinking about how different everything is now." I lean back against his chest. "Two months ago, I thought my life was over. Now..."

"Now?"

"Now I can't imagine being anywhere else, with anyone else." I turn in his arms to face him. "I have something to tell you."

His expression immediately becomes alert. "Is everything okay? The baby?—"

"The baby is fine," I assure him quickly. "Better than fine, actually. I felt movement yesterday. Just little flutters, but definitely movement."

The wonder that crosses his face makes my heart skip. "Really?"

"Really. Our little one is getting stronger every day."

He drops to his knees right there on the terrace, his hands gentle on my small bump. "Hey there, little one," he murmurs. "This is your papa. I can't wait to meet you."

The tenderness in his voice brings tears to my eyes. This man who was trained to kill, who spent thirty years believing he was nothing but a weapon, speaks to our unborn child with such love and reverence.

"I love you," I whisper, running my fingers through his dark hair.

"I love you both," he replies, pressing a soft kiss to my belly before standing. "More than I ever thought possible."

He sighs and I can tell there is something on his mind. I sensed it earlier, but I didn’t want to ruin our perfect day.

"The Petrov family reached out again today," Anton says quietly.

I tense slightly. This is a conversation we've been avoiding for weeks. "What did they want?"

"The same thing everyone wants. They want me to take control of what's left of the Orlov organization." His jaw tightens. "They think because I'm Vadim's biological son, I have some kind of claim to his empire."

"Do you?"

"Legally? Maybe. But that's not the point." He wraps his arms around me. "The point is what kind of life we want for our child."

This is the heart of our dilemma. In the two months since Vadim's death, the power vacuum has created chaos throughout Moscow's underworld. Different factions are vying for control, and many see Anton as the legitimate heir—the one person who could unite the fractured organization.

"What do you want to do?" I ask carefully.

"Part of me wants to burn it all down," he admits. "Dismantle everything Vadim built and walk away clean."

"And the other part?"

His eyes darken. "The other part knows that nature abhors a vacuum. If I don't take control, someone else will. Someone potentially worse than Vadim. Someone who might decide that his loose ends—including us—need to be tied up permanently."

It's the same circular argument we've been having for weeks. Walking away means giving up any influence over who fills the power vacuum but staying means raising our child in the world of violence and corruption that nearly destroyed us both.

"The Kozlov family sent an emissary yesterday," I tell him. "While you were at physical therapy."

Anton's posture changes immediately, becoming more alert. "What did they want?"

"Alliance. They're willing to back your claim in exchange for territorial concessions." I fidget with my wedding ring, still getting used to the weight of it. His mother’s ring is on my right-hand ring finger. "They seem to think it's inevitable that you'll take over."