45. Ariel
45
ARIEL
I’m hovering in that hazy space between sleep and waking, where everything feels soft and uncertain. The twins are tumbling and kicking like they sense my unease. I shift position for the hundredth time, trying to get comfortable. It doesn’t happen.
Four days since he left. Four very long days. Still, there’s cedar and mint clinging to the sheets if I look hard enough, the ghost of him haunting our bed. I press my face into his pillow and inhale deeply. I’m only torturing myself, but how can I stop?
Just as I’m finally starting to drift off again, something changes in the air.
A presence.
A weight.
My eyes flutter open, adjusting to the darkness. Moonlight spills through the shutters in silver ribbons, and there—outlined in that ethereal glow—stands Sasha.
I must be dreaming. “You’re supposed to be in New York,” I croak, still wondering how much of this is real.
“And you’re supposed to be asleep.”
He’s watching me with those intense eyes, still dressed in black tactical gear, looking deadly and beautiful. My breath catches in my throat as our gazes lock across the moonlit room.
He crosses.
Three steps. Two. One.
Then he’s on me—no, actually, he’s kneeling next to me, cupping my hand between his.
“I have something for you.”
From his pocket, he produces a small, wooden box, patinated green with age. The hinges creak as he opens it, revealing a delicate gold ring nestled in faded velvet.
“This was my mother’s,” he says quietly. “The only thing of hers I managed to save. After… after what Yakov did to her, I buried it with her. Couldn’t stand the thought of wearing it or selling it. But I couldn’t let myself melt it, either.” His throat works. “But today, after everything was finished with Dragan, I went to her grave. Dug it up myself.”
“Sasha…”
“She would have loved you,” he whispers, turning the ring so it catches the moonlight. “She would have loved what you’ve done to me. Who you’ve made me.” His eyes meet mine. “Will you wear it? Not because some arrangement demands it, but because you choose to be mine?”
“Say it properly,” I rasp.
He stills. “Marry me, Ariel Ward.” Not a question—a raw-throated plea. “Not for politics. Not for peace. Not for profit.” His thumb swipes my tears, smearing salt and iron. “But only because I’m yours. Always was. Always will be.”
I close my eyes. It’s not because I need this time to think it over; truth be told, I’ve known my answer for many, many weeks now. But it’s just because everything with us has always happened so fast, such a blur of moments and places and two truths and many more lies woven in between. So when it comes to this moment, this perfect moment, I want it to last just a bit longer than the others.
Just one extra breath, to seal it in amber. I’ll want to come back to it, I think. I’ll want to hold this moment in my hands again and feel exactly what I’m feeling right now.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, Sasha Ozerov, I’ll marry you.”