Page 18

I hand the phone back and process this information.

Sandy didn’t just find evidence. She helped Aleksandr and Lev dismantle an entire conspiracy piece by piece.

And she did it while pregnant with our child.

While carrying the heir to everything I’ve built over the last two decades.

Part of me admires the hell out of her for what she did.

The other part wants to shake her for putting herself in danger while I was stuck behind bars, powerless to protect her.

The estate comes into view faster than expected, my mind too tangled to notice the miles slipping by. We turn off the main road and wind through the trees that line the estate like a fortress. Familiar stone walls rise in the distance, guarding the estate and the lives within it.

Two hundred acres of privacy and security, designed to be an impenetrable stronghold and a place where the Avilov family can call home. Aleksandr offered me a place here before my arrest, knowing my property would be too exposed after this war with Morozov.

I see Sandy as the gates swing open, and the car stops in the circular driveway. She is standing on the front steps, one hand on the wrought iron railing, the other resting against the gentle swell of her stomach. Her fire-red hair is loose and windblown, her blue eyes intense with anticipation.

She looks stronger yet more vulnerable than the last time I saw her.

There is a new hardness in her posture and a vigilance from months of looking over her shoulder.

But there is also softness, and a glow that pregnancy has given her.

My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free and reach her faster than my body can move.

She doesn’t wait. Sandy walks toward me with purpose in every step, her eyes locking on mine like she doesn’t believe it until she sees it herself.

Despite being five months pregnant, she moves with the same ease and grace she has always had.

Nothing slows her down. Not pregnancy. Not danger.

Not the fact that I was incarcerated with no guarantee of release.

I step out of the car just as she reaches me.

We look at each other as if trying to remember every line, every scar, every second lost to fear and silence.

The depth of emotion in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees.

Love, relief, exhaustion, and determination are all mixed together in a gaze that sees through every wall I put up.

Then she moves. She wraps her arms around me and holds on like she is trying to piece me back together from the outside in. I bury my face in her hair. She smells like safety, honey, and the echo of home.

Her voice cracks against my chest. “You're here.”

“I'm here,” I reply, my voice unsteady for the first time in years. My hands tremble slightly as I hold her, my freedom finally hitting me full force. I’m holding her, and I’m going to see my child born. The future I started to believe was lost forever is suddenly mine again.

She pulls back just far enough to look up at me, her fingers still gripping the front of my shirt. “I didn't stop, Dimitri. I couldn't.”

“I know,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her skin is warm beneath my fingers, so different from the cold steel and concrete that surrounded me for weeks. “I saw the files.”

Her eyes well, but she doesn’t cry. She carried both of us while I was gone, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure she never carries anything alone again.

“Come inside,” she hums, sliding her hand into mine. Her grip is firm, her fingers intertwining with mine like puzzle pieces.

As we walk through the estate doors, I feel a shift settle deep in my gut.

This isn’t over. Morozov still breathes.

Petrov might have flipped, but the war hasn’t ended.

There will be consequences for what happened.

There will be blood to pay for those weeks stolen from me.

For the fear Sandy lived with, and the threats made against our family.

But I’m no longer alone. And neither is she. And that changes everything.

Inside, the warmth of the estate envelopes us like a shield. The foyer echoes with our footsteps as Sandy leads me toward the stairs. Guards nod respectfully as we pass, their eyes alert despite the familiar surroundings. In our world, safety is never guaranteed.

“Are you hungry?” Sandy asks, her thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand as we walk. Such a normal question. Such a domestic concern. It makes my heart ache with everything I missed.

“Later,” I reply because food isn’t what I need. What I need is to hold her without eyes watching. What I need is privacy, quiet, and time to remember what it feels like to sink my cock into her wet pussy.

She understands. Without another word, she guides me up the stairs and to the guest bedroom we have occupied since Morozov first threatened us.

When the door closes behind us, I slowly pull her back into my arms. I trace the lines of her face with my fingertips, memorizing her all over again. The slight arch of her eyebrows, the curve of her lips, and the small scar near her hairline from a childhood accident. She is real. This is real.

“I thought of you every night,” I confess, my voice low against the room's quiet. “I told myself to stop. That it would be easier if I could just forget for a while. But I never could.”

Sandy reaches up and touches my face, her fingers gentle against the stubble I wasn’t able to shave properly in weeks. “Good,” she breathes. “Because I never stopped thinking of you either.”

At this moment, with her arms around me and her heart beating against mine, I know with absolute certainty that we will face it together, whatever comes next.

Morozov, Petrov, the police, the feds. No one stands a chance against what we have built.

Not just power, money, or influence. But something far more dangerous. Love.