Chapter 51
Mary
“Drive safe,” Grandma says for the third time, holding both my hands at the door of NOIR.
“I will. I promise.”
“And eat breakfast tomorrow. Real breakfast. Not just coffee.”
“I can’t have coffee. Pregnancy, remember?”
“Then juice. Orange juice. With pulp.”
I smile despite the exhaustion settling into my bones. “With pulp. Got it.”
She cups my face. Studies me in that way only grandmothers can—seeing past the makeup and the dress and the smile I’ve been holding all night.
“You did good today, Mary-Cat,” she says quietly. “I’m proud of you.”
My throat tightens. “For what? Turning thirty?”
“For surviving. For standing. For being here.” She touches my stomach, gentle. “For choosing life even when it’s terrifying.”
I can’t speak. Can only nod.
She kisses my forehead. “He’ll come home.”
“I know.”
I don’t know. But I want to believe.
Ruth hugs me next. Then Mateo, who smells like expensive cologne and promises to send me the photos from tonight.
Jasper walks me to the door, arm around my waist.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Exhausted. Full. Grateful.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “Sad.”
“He’s coming back.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true.” He squeezes my hand. “Get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thank you. For all of this.”
“Anytime, sugar tits.”
I laugh despite everything. “Never change, Jas.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The SUV is parked right outside. Black. Tinted windows. Engine already running.
Dima’s behind the wheel. I can just make out his silhouette through the windshield. Silent. Still. Very Dima.
Lev opens the back door for me. “Home?”
“Home.”
I slide into the back seat. The door closes. Engine hums.
And suddenly I’m alone.
Well. Not alone. The baby’s here. Growing. Real.
I rest my hand on my stomach. It’s more pronounced now. A gentle curve where there used to be nothing.
“Hi, baby girl,” I whisper.
I don’t know why I said girl. It just felt right. Like I know, somehow.
The SUV pulls away from the curb. I watch NOIR disappear in the side mirror. Pink walls. Gold fixtures. Jasper standing in the doorway, waving.
My family.
Not by blood. By choice.
I lean my head back against the seat. Close my eyes.
“Your daddy’s coming home this week,” I tell the baby. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after. It’s not quite two weeks yet, but—” My voice cracks. “But I was hoping he’d be here. For my birthday. For today.”
I wipe my eyes.
“Stupid, right? He said two weeks. It’s only been thirteen days. I should be grateful he’s even alive. That he’s coming back at all.” I press my hand harder against my stomach. “But I wanted him here. I wanted him to see me turn thirty. To see this dress. To see how much you’ve grown.”
Pause.
My voice cracks.
I breathe through it. Keep going.
“He’s going to love you so much, baby girl.
More than anything. More than his whole scary reputation and his leather jackets and his stupid need to fix everything alone.
” I smile through the tears. “He reads poetry. Did I tell you that? Russian poetry. And he cooks. And he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world worth looking at. ”
The SUV turns left. Smooth. Controlled.
“He’s so brave. And strong. And terrifying when he needs to be. But with me—with us—he’s different. Softer. Like he finally found something worth protecting that isn’t just duty or loyalty or revenge.”
I wipe my eyes. My makeup’s probably ruined. I don’t care.
“I hope you get his eyes. They’re this dark green that looks almost black until the light hits them just right. And his hair. And his stubbornness.” I laugh softly. “Actually, maybe not the stubbornness. One of us is enough.”
The baby doesn’t respond. Obviously. Twelve weeks is too early for kicking.
But I swear I feel something. A flutter. A presence.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper. “Even if he doesn’t come back. Even if it’s just you and me. We’re going to be okay.”
I don’t believe it. But I say it anyway.
The exhaustion hits me all at once. Bone-deep. Heavy. Like I’ve been holding myself together with pure willpower, and it’s finally running out.
The leather seat smells familiar. Safe. Like cedar and gunpowder and something else I can’t quite place.
Like home.
My eyes drift closed. Just for a second. Just to rest.
The SUV moves beneath me. I feel it—the gentle sway, the turns, the steady hum of the engine.
But I’m too tired to open my eyes. Too tired to ask where we’re going.
Too tired to do anything but sink deeper into the leather seat that smells like him.
Just a few more seconds. Then I’ll wake up.
Then I’ll deal with going home to an empty bed.
Just… a few… more…
I’m dreaming.
I have to be dreaming.
Because I can smell him. All of him, filling my lungs. Not just the memory of him, but the actual scent—cedar, gunpowder, that expensive cologne, and underneath it all, just him.
Stillness.
The engine’s stopped. The movement’s gone. We’re not driving anymore. Home. We must be home.
But I don’t want to open my eyes. Don’t want to face the empty penthouse. The cold sheets. The reality that he’s still not here.
So I keep them closed. Keep pretending. Keep living in this dream where I can feel him close. Where his presence wraps around me like warmth.
Just a little longer. Please.
I hear it then: the driver’s door opening. Closing. The quiet thud of it. Footsteps on pavement. Coming around. Slow. Deliberate.
Then my door opens.
Cool night air rushes in, replacing the warmth of the car. I should open my eyes. Should sit up. Should thank Dima for driving and drag myself upstairs to the empty penthouse.
But I can’t. I’m too tired. Too sad. Too everything.
Just one more second. One more moment of pretending before I have to face reality.
A presence leans in. Close. So close I can feel body heat. Smell cedar and gunpowder and something underneath that makes my chest ache.
Warm fingers brush my cheek. Gentle. Reverent.
“Malyshka,” a voice whispers. Deep. Russian. Wrecked.
I lean into the touch. Into the dream. Because if this is all I get, I’ll take it.
His thumb traces my jawline. Down to my chin. Back up to my temple.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re crying.”
Am I crying?
I must be. Because I feel wetness on my cheeks. Feel the ache in my chest that only comes from missing someone so much it physically hurts.
Lips press against my forehead. Soft. Lingering.
“I’m here,” the voice says. “I’m right here.”
But he’s not. He can’t be. He’s in Moscow or on a plane or anywhere but here.
This is just a dream. A beautiful, cruel dream.
The tears come harder. I don’t try to stop them.
“Don’t cry, my love.” His voice breaks on the words. “Please don’t cry.”
Hands cup my face. Thumbs wiping away tears.
And that’s when I smell it again. Stronger. Real.
Cedar. Gunpowder. Home.
My eyes snap open.
And there he is.
Anton.
Those eyes. Dark green. The color of forests at midnight. The color I was terrified I’d never see again.
They’re locked on me with an intensity that steals my breath. Steady. Unwavering.
Like he’s memorizing me.
Or maybe checking that I’m real too.
The cut on his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The exhaustion etched into every line of his face.
He’s here. He’s real. He came back.
Right next to me.
He’s standing outside the open car door, leaning in, one hand braced on the roof of the SUV, the other cupping my face. Close enough that I can feel his breath. Close enough to touch.
Eyes locked on mine with such intensity my heart might actually stop.
“Hi, malyshka,” he says softly.
I can’t breathe. Can’t move. Can’t process what I’m seeing.
“You’re—” My voice breaks. “You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“But you were… I thought Dima was—”
“I’ve been here the whole time, driving. Watching you sleep. Listening to you talk to our daughter.”
Our daughter.
He heard me. Heard everything I said.
“Anton.” It comes out as a sob.
And then I’m moving. Throwing myself at him. Arms around his neck. Face buried in his shoulder. Breathing him in like oxygen.
He catches me. Always catches me. Arms wrapping around me so tight I can barely breathe, but I don’t care.
“You’re real,” I gasp against his neck. “You’re really here.”
“I’m real.” His hand moves to the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “I’m here. I came back.”
“You said two weeks—”
“Thirteen days.” His voice is rough. Raw. “I couldn’t wait the full two weeks. Not when I knew you were here. Turning thirty. Without me.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. To really look at him.
Thirteen days.
He was counting. Just like I was counting.
Every hour. Every minute. Every second.
He wasn’t just gone. He was coming back. Thinking about me. Counting down the days until he could be here.
The tears fall faster. But I’m laughing too. This broken, messy sound that’s half-sob, half-relief.
My hands move to his face. Cupping his cheeks. Feeling the stubble scratch my palms. The warmth of his skin. The realness of him.
“You counted,” I whisper. “You were counting too.”
“Every fucking day, malyshka.” His voice cracks. “Every morning, I woke up thinking ‘twelve more days.’ ‘Ten more days.’ ‘One more day and I can see her.’”
A sob breaks free. “I thought I was the only one—”
“No.” He turns his head, kisses my palm. “Never. You were all I thought about. The only thing that kept me going.”
I can’t stop touching him. Can’t stop crying. Can’t stop laughing through the tears.
And I can’t take my eyes off him.
Not for a second. Not even to blink.
Because if I do—if I look away for even a moment—he might disappear. Might dissolve back into a dream. Might become another ghost I’ve been chasing for thirteen endless days.
So I stare. I memorize.
The dark circles under his eyes, deeper than before. Evidence of sleepless nights. Of Moscow. Of fighting his way back to me.
The healing cut on his jaw—fresh, still pink at the edges. A reminder that he bled for this. That he fought.
Stubble darker than usual, like he hasn’t had time to shave. Like getting here mattered more than anything else.
He looks exhausted. Wrung out. Like he’s been through hell and barely made it back.
Dangerous. Still dangerous. Maybe more so now—sharp edges and hard lines and violence barely contained.
But alive.
God, he’s alive.
And he’s here.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the reason he survived.
“Is it done?” I ask. “Igor—”
“It’s done.” His eyes don’t leave mine. “I’m a lot of things, malyshka. A killer. A bastard. A man who doesn’t deserve you. But I’m also stubborn as hell. And a little hiccup in Moscow wasn’t about to stop me from getting back here. To you. For your birthday.”
“A little hiccup?”
His mouth curves. “Igor tried to make it complicated. I made it simple.”
Which means Igor’s dead. Which means it’s really over.
“You kept your promise,” I whisper.
“I always will.”
Then he’s kissing me.
Finally. Finally.
His mouth is demanding. Possessive. Desperate. Like he’s been starving for two weeks, and I’m the only thing that can save him.
I kiss him back just as hard. Fingers in his hair. Nails scraping his scalp. Trying to get closer even though there’s no space left between us.
He groans into my mouth. One hand on my face. The other sliding down to my waist, spanning my hip, pulling me even tighter against him.
And God, I forgot how this feels. How right this feels.
His arms around me. His chest against mine. His home.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” he murmurs into my hair.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” I whisper back.