Page 90 of Blood, Bones, and the Bratva Bogeyman

Konstantin climbs into the bed with me and wraps me in his arms, brushing his lips against my forehead. “You okay,Lisichka?”

“Getting there.”

I glance over at Sunniva, now arguing with Misha about which glitter shade best reflects feminine rage. Lucetta’s smile is small, but it’s there. Kingston fidgets as if he’s been still too long and he’s ready to bolt.

Konstantin is pressed against me, holding me as if he alone can keep other monsters at bay.

And our daughter mewls from her cradle.

This is my family. One I’ve built. One I’ve stitched together from blood, madness, and the kind of love that scars before it soothes.

We survived the Reaper.

We buried Giselda in fire.

We named our daughter after the storm.

And in the end, it wasn’t death that came for us.

It waslife.

A feral, bloody, beautiful life.

And she has her father’s eyes.

Epilogue

Thehardwoodgroansbeneathmy boots as I stalk the hallway, slow and deliberate. It’s the kind of gain that used to make grown men piss themselves.

“Papa!”

The war cry comes with glitter.

Literal fucking glitter.

A pink, sparkling hurricane barrels toward me, her tutu flaring like a battle flag, her tiara hanging haphazardly on her head. She’s five and fucking fierce. A feral little princess in combat boots and tulle because softness in this house comes laced with sharp edges.

“Calypso,” I grunt just as she hurls herself at my leg.

Forty pounds of chaos, and she brings me to a dead stop like a tank. She stares up with a gap-toothed grin and lethal blue eyes that are identical to my own.

Fucking weaponized cuteness, as Misha calls her.

“You said I could do your nails today.”

I blink. “I said that?”

“Mmhmm. You said it last week,” she replies. “Which means today.”

The bottle of pink glittery polish with skulls on the cap is already in her hand. It’s non-toxic, of course, because Cressida made sure of it. Calypso holds it up like a threat, her chin tipped in challenge and her tiny jaw squared like she’s ready to throw hands if I even think about backing out.

From behind her comes a giggle and the soft thudding footsteps of a much smaller pair of feet.

Nikolai appears in the doorway, blond-haired and wide-eyed, already glaring at the world like it owes him something. He’s three and already my miniature mirror with his stoic and grumpy personality.

He climbs onto the couch with a grunt, like he’s storming a fortress. “Gon’ make you sparky ‘gain.”

“Traitor,” I mutter.