Page 115 of Bride of Vengeance

My mother is crying. Mila is recording on her phone. And I'm frozen, staring at this man who understands that my mother's approval means everything to me.

"Señora Castillo," he turns to my mother, still on one knee. "I know I'm not what you imagined for your daughter. I have a dark past, a dangerous history. But I love her with everything I am. I love your grandchildren already. And I promise, on my life, to protect them all."

"You already married her," my mother points out, but she's smiling through her tears.

"In a courthouse, alone. She deserves better. You deserve to see your daughter properly married."

My mother looks at me. "Well, mija?"

"Yes," I whisper, then louder, "Yes, of course yes."

He slides the ring onto my finger above our simple courthouse band. "The ruby is passion," he explains. "But also protection in Russian tradition. The diamonds are for strength and forever."

"And the Spanish tradition?" my mother asks.

"The Spanish tradition is me learning to say your grandchildren's names correctly, even if they're called Alejandro and Guadalupe."

My mother laughs, pulling him up and into a hug that surprises everyone, especially Mikhail.

"You'll do," she tells him. "You'll do just fine."

The house has finally quieted. My mother is asleep in the guest room, Mila and Alexei have retired to their wing, and I'm searching for my husband.

I find Mikhail on the balcony, Chicago glittering below us. He's loosened his tie, sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than he has in weeks.

"Hiding?" I ask, joining him at the railing.

"Recovering. Your mother is scarier than Pavel ever was."

"She likes you now."

"Because I groveled appropriately."

"Because you understood what mattered—family, tradition, respect." I turn to face him. "You gave her the moment she missed at our courthouse wedding."

"I gave you both that moment." His hands frame my face. "You deserve to be properly asked, properly cherished."

"I am cherished."

"Not enough. Never enough." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "When I thought I'd lost you there, when Harrison had you—"

"Don't." I press my fingers to his lips. "We're here. We're safe. We're having babies who are currently using my ribs as soccer practice."

He laughs, his hand moving to my belly. "They're strong."

"Like their father."

"Beautiful like their mother."

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Will it?" His voice drops to that dangerous register that still makes my knees weak.

"Our room. Now."

In our bedroom, moonlight streams through the windows. Mikhail watches me with an intensity that makes me shiver, despite being four months pregnant with twins.

"You're staring," I say.