Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
T he master suite is too quiet.
We brought Oleg back under a security detail that looked like we were escorting a head of state.
There were three black SUVs in the driveway, guards at every corner of the property, and Lev practically living on the front porch.
But inside the guest room next to ours, the silence is incredibly fragile.
Oleg is sitting on the edge of the large queen bed.
He looks tiny against the massive, dark wood headboard, his knees pulled up to his chin, his small hands still tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie.
He hasn't taken it off. He hasn't let me wash the concrete dust from his cheeks. He’s just staring at the plush rug, his eyes blinking slowly.
"Do you want some hot chocolate?" I ask, sitting on the floor a few feet away from the bed. I keep my distance, my legs crossed, my hands resting on my knees. I don't want to crowd him. I don't want to look like another keeper. "The cook makes it with real chocolate. It’s very thick."
Oleg doesn't look up. "Sergei said I wasn't allowed to have sugar before bed."
"Sergei isn't here anymore," I say, keeping my voice soft, though the mere mention of his name makes a cold spark of anger flare in my chest. "And in this house, you can have chocolate whenever you want."
"Who lives here?" he asks, his voice a tiny, shaky murmur.
"I do. And Mikhail." I glance toward the door.
Mikhail is sitting in a leather chair just outside the threshold of the room.
He hasn't tried to come in. He hasn't tried to speak to Oleg or tower over him with his massive frame. He’s just sitting there, a quiet, dark shadow in a clean black shirt, his fingers slowly tracing the edge of a small wooden toy car his people brought from the Alpine house. Every time Oleg’s eyes drift toward the doorway, Mikhail is there—steady, silent, and completely unthreatening. Well, as unthreatening as he can be.
It’s a side of him I’ve never seen.
"Is he the boss?" Oleg asks, his blue eyes finally rising to look at me.
"He thinks he is," I say, a small, genuine grin touching my lips. "But mostly he’s just loud. He grumbles a lot, but he doesn't bite unless you touch his things."
"He has a lot of tattoos," Oleg whispers.
"Yeah, he does. If you want, I’ll ask him to show you the one on his back. It looks like a big bird."
Oleg looks toward the door again. Mikhail doesn't look back, but he sets the wooden car on the floor near the entrance, within the boy's line of sight, before leaning his head back against the wall.
"Are you really my mom?" Oleg asks, his voice dropping so low I have to lean forward to hear it.
A sudden, wet warmth rises behind my eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat, my fingers digging into the fabric of my jeans to keep from reaching out and grabbing him. "I am, baby. I’ve been looking for you for years. Every single day."
"Why did you leave me?"
"I didn't want to," I say, my voice trembling. "My father—your grandfather—he took you before I could even hold you. He told me you were gone. He lied to me, Oleg. Just like he lied to you."
"He was mean," Oleg says, his bottom lip trembling. "He never let me go outside the fence. He said the world was full of bad people who wanted to steal me."
"He was the bad person," I say, my voice turning to iron. "But he’s gone now. He can never touch you again. I promise."
Oleg looks at me for a long beat, his blue eyes so deep and familiar it makes my throat ache. He slowly slides off the edge of the bed, his small sneakers hitting the rug. He walks over, slow and tentative, and sits down on the floor three feet away from me.
It’s a start. It’s the first real step we’ve taken in seven years.
"Can I have the chocolate now?" he asks.
"I'll go get it," I say, a wet, happy laugh escaping my lips.
As I stand up, the door downstairs clicks open.
I head into the hallway, stopping near Mikhail’s chair. He looks up at me, his blue eyes soft as he takes in the flush on my cheeks.
"He's talking," I whisper, my hand coming down to rest on his shoulder. "He asked about your tattoos."
"I’ll cover them up if they scare him," Mikhail grunts, his hand coming up to wrap around my wrist. His palm is hot and heavy, a constant comfort.
"They don't scare him," I say. "He thinks you look like a superhero."
Mikhail lets out a short, grunted huff that sounds like a laugh. "A superhero. That’s a first."
We head downstairs to find the family has arrived.
The foyer is full of the soft murmur of voices. Artyom is sitting on the bench near the coat rack, looking pale but steady, his hand locked in Kira’s. She’s carrying a large cardboard box filled with things that look like children's books and stuffed animals.
Calina and Milana are right behind them. Milana has a massive, fluffy brown teddy bear tucked under her arm, her face bright and excited, while Calina is carrying a stack of board games.
"How is he?" Kira asks, walking over and wrapping her free arm around my shoulders.
"He's quiet," I say, my voice low. "But he's talking. He just asked for hot chocolate."
"I brought books," Kira says, gesturing to the box. "And some of Artyom’s old toy trains. They were in the attic at the country house. We thought he might like them."
"He'll love them," I say, my throat tight.
"Can we see him?" Milana asks, her eyes wide and hopeful. "I promise I won't squeal. Calina told me if I made a scene, she’d lock me in the car."
"You can see him," I say, looking at Calina. "But be gentle. He’s had a very long night."
We all head upstairs after I ordered the hot chocolate.
The sisters slip into the guest room, their voices dropping into a soft, gentle register that I’ve never heard from them.
Milana drops the teddy bear onto the floor near Oleg, sitting down beside him without a word and pointing to the board games Calina is holding.
Within five minutes, Calina is sitting on the rug, explaining the rules of Monopoly to a seven-year-old boy like she’s negotiating a territory dispute.
I watch them from the doorway, my chest feeling lighter than it has in a decade.
"They like him," Mikhail says, stepping up behind me, his chest pressing against my back, his hands coming down to rest on my waist.
"Of course they like him," I say, leaning my head back against his shoulder. "He’s adorable."
"He’s a Morozov now," Mikhail corrects, his voice a low, possessive rumble in my ear.
Artyom walks over, his arm still in a cast, looking at the boy on the floor. He looks at me, his gray eyes serious and steady. "He has your chin, Irina."
"I know," I say, my voice a whisper. "Thank you, Artyom. For everything."
"He's family," Artyom says simply. He looks at Mikhail. "Konstantin is finalizing the Petrov holdings. The Council has already agreed to the merger. Boris’s enforcers have surrendered. The war is over, Mikhail."
"Good," Mikhail grunts. "Because I have a kid to teach how to shoot."
"Don't you dare," Kira warns, swatting his arm as she walks past.
By midnight, the house is completely quiet.
Artyom and the girls left hours ago, and Oleg is finally asleep in the guest room, the massive brown teddy bear tucked under his arm, his breathing deep and even. I stayed with him until he drifted off, running my fingers through his hair, listening to the small, soft sighs he made in his sleep.
I walk back into our main suite, my feet silent on the rug.
Mikhail is standing by the French doors that lead to the balcony.
The doors are open, the cool night air blowing the dark curtains around him.
He’s changed into a simple gray t-shirt and sweatpants, a glass of water in his hand, his eyes fixed on the dark woods of the estate.
The bruise on his jaw is starting to fade, but he still looks tired—exhausted by the last three days.
I walk over to him, sliding my arms around his waist from behind. I press my face against his bare back, the scent of him, woodsmoke and clean cotton, instantly filling my lungs.
Mikhail lets out a long, ragged sigh, his hands coming down to cover mine, his fingers interlocking with my own.
"He’s asleep?" he asks.
"Yeah. He’s holding the bear Milana brought. I think he’s going to be okay, Mikhail."
"He’s going to be fine, Irina. He’s got you."
I pull away slowly, walking around to stand in front of him. I look up at his face, the dim light of the bedroom casting long shadows across his sharp features. My chest is tight, a sudden, quiet vulnerability rising through my stubborn defenses.
"Mikhail," I say, my voice a quiet thread.
"What?"
"Is this real?" I ask.
He frowns, his blue eyes narrowing as he looks down at me. "What are you talking about?"
"Us," I say, my hands coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. "The marriage. The house. Oleg. We’ve been running on adrenaline for weeks. We’ve been fighting our fathers, fighting the Bratva, fighting each other.
But now... now the war is over. Boris is dead.
Vladimir is dead. There are no more secrets. "
I look out at the dark balcony, my voice dropping. "I’m not the Petrov princess anymore. I’m just a woman with a seven-year-old boy and a lot of emotional baggage. I keep wondering... if we wake up tomorrow, and there’s no one left to fight... are we still going to want each other?"
Mikhail doesn't answer immediately.
He sets his glass down on the side table with a slow, deliberate click.
He steps into my space, his presence instantly swallowing the small distance between us.
He reaches out, his large, scarred hands framing my face, his thumbs tilting my chin up until I have no choice but to look into the blue fire of his eyes.
"You're hallucinating, Irina," he growls, his voice a low, rough rasp.
"Mikhail—"
"Listen to me," he interrupts, his grip on my jaw tightening just enough to make me focus.
"This became real long before either of us admitted it.
It was real when I found you in Cancun. It was real when you sat at my table and won my game.
And it was real when you looked me in the eye and told me you trusted me. "
He leans down, his forehead coming to rest against mine, his breath hot and ragged against my lips.
"The war didn't make me want you, Irina. The war was just the noise we had to clear out of the way. Oleg changes nothing. If he’s your son, then he’s my son to protect.
And you... you’re my wife. If there is one thing I am certain of in this world, it is that I am never letting you go.
There is no one left to fight, dorogaya .
But I’m still here. And I’m not going anywhere. "
The last of my defenses simply collapse.
The stubbornness, the sass, the fear of being used... it all melts away in the heat of his promise. I let out a soft, broken whimper, my arms wrapping around his neck, my fingers tangling in his hair as I pull him down into a kiss.
It’s a sweet, slow kiss, completely devoid of the violence of the last few nights.
It tastes of safety, of morning, of a future we’ve finally won with our own hands.
Mikhail groans into my mouth, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest until there isn't a single millimeter of air between us.
He lifts me, my boots leaving the floor, and carries me to the bed. He sets me down on the silk sheets, his body a warm, heavy weight as he settles over me. He doesn't try to tear my clothes off. He just lies there, his head resting on my shoulder, his fingers interlocking with mine on the pillow.
"We’re home, Irina," he whispers against my skin.
I look toward the open French doors, the silver moonlight filling the room, the sound of the wind in the trees a peaceful, steady song.
The cage is gone. The bars are broken. But as I look at my husband, his hand warm on mine, I realize that I’m not running anymore.
I’m exactly where I belong.