Page 145 of Brutal Reign

When it’s my turn, I hand Kin a wooden box filled with professional-grade paints and brushes. “I thought maybe we could paint together,” I say. “I never took lessons, but I’d love to take them with you.”

I used to paint my demons—my guilt, my grief over Kamilla. Dark, twisted canvases that helped me process feelings I couldn’t in any other way. But with Kin, I want to paint something different. Light instead of darkness. Hope instead of despair.

I think about Kamilla often, about how much I wish she could have met Kin, could have seen the family she’s a part of. For years, thinking about my sister was nothing but pain that poured out through my art. But since Hope and Kin came into my life, I’ve been able to remember her differently. To share stories about who she was. To show Kin pictures of the aunt who would have adored him. It’s been healing in a way I never expected.

And now I want painting to take on a different meaning.

“Thank you, Papa!” Kin throws his arms around my neck, and I breathe in the scent of him, still amazed that this perfect little person is mine to protect and love.

Kin runs off, and Hope settles beside me, her hand resting on my thigh as she watches him play with his new remote-control dinosaur. She looks relaxed, happy, genuinely at peace. The woman who came to me broken and scared has become someone confident and radiant, and knowing I played a part in that transformation fills me with pride.

“Hey,” I murmur, leaning close to her ear. “Want to take a walk with me?”

We slip away from the table, walking hand in hand toward the edge of the gardens, where the afternoon light filters through the trees. When we reach a quiet spot away from the celebration, I stop and turn to face her.

“Hope,” I begin, then drop to one knee.

She bites her lip, staring down at me. “What are you doing?”

I pull the small velvet box from my pocket—the one I’ve been carrying for weeks, waiting for the right moment.

“The first time, I didn’t give you a choice. While I don’t regret it, I want to do this right. I want you to say ‘I do’ because you choose to, not because you have to.”

Her eyes well up as I open the box to reveal a simple gold band, engraved with the Russian words “forever mine” and beside them a single traditional Chinese character meaning “always.”

“Hope King Fedorova, will you marry me? Will you choose this life with me, this family we’ve built, this beautiful chaos we call home?”

Despite the tears, a bright smile breaks through.

“You know,” she teases, her voice thick with emotion, “I might need more convincing.”

“You want me to dress up as a Viking and ravish you? Because I can do that.”

She drops to her knees in front of me. “Yes, I’ll marry you. I’d marry you in this life and every life after. You know that, right?”

“Angel moy,” I whisper, sliding the ring onto her finger beside the pink diamond I gave her months ago. “You saved me—both of you. I didn’t even know I was drowning until you taught me how to breathe again.”

When I kiss her, it tastes like sunshine and promises. Like the life we’ve built and the future we’re going to share. Like the love that saved us both from the darkness we thought we’d never escape.

“I love you,” she whispers against my lips.

“I love you too. Always.”

In the distance, Kin’s laughter mixes with the voices of our family, and I know that this moment, this woman, this life, is everything I could have ever wished for and more than I ever deserved.

And I’ll never let it go.