Page 54 of Bratva's Innocent Obsession
Her eyes go dark as her pupils expand, and there’s promise in her gaze as she leans in for a kiss.
EPILOGUE
KON
Seven years later
Every week, I wear a tutu. Sometimes it’s pink.
Every time, Taylor laughs at me.
It is absurd thatIam dancing ballet in this family.
“Daddy, that’s not first position,” Fiona says. She’s our middle daughter—of course we have three, and a son—and where the other kids are happy to do ballet with an expert, Fiona insists that I do it with her.
And because I love our children more than life itself, I put on one of the multiple tutus I now own—I can even identify a pancake tutu from a classic tutu—and practice what Fiona learned with Taylor. Thankfully our five-year-old will concede to being taught by Taylor, who now runs the most sought-after ballet classes in London, and gives free advice sessions for aspiring ballerinas, helping them find the right places to train and work. And avoid the things that happened to her.
“You have to put your arms like this,” she clarifies.
I obediently hold my arms as she indicates. We’re in the living room of our Harlesden house in London. The otherkids are upstairs doing homework or playing outside, or with Taylor, but Thursday evenings are when Fiona and I practice ballet. We’re working on a special Christmas performance by the willing children of the Love sisters. Fiona, her sister, and her cousins, my brothers-in-law, and me, will all be doing a ballet for Taylor, Hayley, and Payton.
And I will prove that I have two left feet.
“Again?” Fiona asks.
“Yep.” I press play on the music, and it starts up. We stand side by side, toes turned out, arms arched.
I’d never admit it to anyone, but I love dancing with Fiona. It’s quality time with my middle girl. We talk each other through every move, me remembering most of them, her remembering her favourites.
“And the spin!”
I sigh, because if there is one thing I am bad at, it’s spinning. It’s on tiptoes, with arms in the air, and Taylor makes it look very elegant. I do it with more enthusiasm than skill, but I’m a big guy, and this isn’t easy.
“Daddy! That wasn’t a proper spin!” she objects.
“It wasn’t,” I agree. I pick her up by her wrists—she’s only just small enough for me to do this now and I’m nostalgic—and spin again, turning in quick circles so she giggles. I spin her around and around, her little tutu flying out. There’s a massive grin on both of our faces by the time I put her down.
Almost as big as my wife’s smile when I notice her in the doorway, watching us.
“Alright, water break,” I say. “Then we’ll try the spins again.”
“Can I have juice?”
I raise one eyebrow. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“I do,” she says happily. “I’ll get it.”
She scampers away, and I glance over at Taylor.
“I think Fiona just enjoys bossing you around,” Taylor says confidingly.
Dragging my hand through my hair, I groan. “I must look ridiculous.”
Her expression softens. “You look gorgeous. You look like my perfect, loving husband and the best father a kid could ask for.”
I melt a bit. On days when Harlesden takes up all my time, or there are bloody duties that make me late, my favourite thing is thinking of moments like these. My wife, and one or all of the kids, and me.
Going to her, I take Taylor in my arms and kiss her, indulging in a deep, sweet taste of her. She kisses me back with equal need, linking her fingers at my nape and pulling me closer.
“I look nowhere near as good as you do in a tutu,” I whisper against her lips, and she laughs. “I love you,” I say, then repeat it in Russian. “Thank you.”
She shakes her head. “It should be me thanking you, Kon.”
I kiss her cheek and breathe in her scent. I think she still has no idea how she saved me. I’ve told her enough times how I was lonely and bored, and how nothing meant anything. How I was breathing and rich and powerful, but I had no life. I wasn’t alive.
And then there was her.
Taylor gave me life, and that’s why I’ve called her that from the beginning. Zhizn moya. My life. And why I’ll never let her go.