Page 92 of The Russian's Revenge Bride

We stayed joined for a long, suspended moment, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths mingling. His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb stroking in slow, grounding sweeps.

When he finally eased out of me, he pulled me tight against his chest, my cheek resting over his heart.

“Do you ever regret it?” I asked quietly. “Kidnapping me? Starting this whole mess?”

“Never.” His answer was immediate, absolute. “You’re the best mistake I ever made, Eleanor. The one perfect choice in a life full of wrong ones.”

I pressed a kiss to his collarbone, tasting salt and satisfaction. “Even though it almost got you killed?”

“Especially because of that.” His arms tightened around me. “Nothing worth having comes easy, ??? ???????. And you’re worth everything.”

I didn’t know what the Russian words meant, but I felt their weight, their promise. Felt the truth of them settle into my bones like a brand.

Outside our window, Chicago glittered in the darkness, a city full of danger and beauty. Somewhere out there, other couples were falling asleep in beds untouched by violence, in lives that had never been forged in blood.

But none of them had what we had. None had fought for their love, killed for it, or been willing to burn the world to protect it.

We belonged to each other beyond vows or contracts, bound by choice, by war, by a love so fierce it had survived everything thrown at it. Through blood, through fire, through the kind of darkness that would have broken anyone else.

As sleep finally claimed me in the arms of the man who had stolen, claimed, and freed me, I thought of the enemies buried, the family saved, the empire rebuilt. Mostly, I thought of the future as Eleanor Voronov, wife to the most dangerous man in Chicago, and a woman who knew what it meant to be treasured.

This was where I belonged. And God help anyone who tried to take it from us.

***

THE END