Page 69 of Secret Baby of the Bratva

“Don’t get greedy,” I tease, but my voice catches, because he’s smiling now—small, fleeting, but real.

The silence settles again, this time warm, almost heavy with everything unspoken. My eyes drift to our son, safe between us, then back to him.

“Do you ever wonder,” I ask quietly, “if we would’ve found each other without all the blood and fire?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No. Men like me don’t meet women like you in galleries or cafés. We meet in storms. In ruins. Somehow, you stayed.”

“I did,” I whisper. “God help me, I did.”

He studies me for a long moment, thumb tracing the inside of my wrist where our hands are still linked. “You don’t regret it?”

I hold his gaze. “Not anymore.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, relief, maybe, though he buries it quickly. His hand lifts, fingers brushing a strand of hair from my cheek, lingering against my skin.

“You should,” he says softly.

“Well, I don’t.”

The storm growls outside, but in here it’s only us. His son’s even breathing, my heart hammering, his eyes dark and steady.

“Annie,” he murmurs, my name shaped like both warning and prayer.

“Dimitri.” I lean closer, reckless, certain. “Stop pretending we’re still fighting this.”

For a breath, he doesn’t move. Then he does.

His mouth finds mine, unhurried but sure, tasting of wine and storm-lit silence. The kiss is steady, claiming, but not with the old sharpness of possession. It’s something else—something quieter, deeper, threaded through with all the words he never says.

*****

THE END