Epilogue Vera
One year later
I stand in the nursery doorway watching my husband pace back and forth with our ten-month-old daughter in his arms. Dimitri Volkov—feared head of one of the most powerful families in the country, a man who once executed traitors without blinking—is currently making airplane noises and completely failing to get baby Mila to take her afternoon nap.
“Come on, little one,” he murmurs, bouncing her gently. “Just close your eyes. Sleep is good. Sleep is your friend.”
Mila babbles what sounds like a protest and yanks on his hair with her tiny fist.
“Ow! That’s Papa’s hair, Mila. We don’t pull Papa’s hair,” he winces as he gently unwraps his hair from her chubby fist
She giggles a bright, delighted sound and does it again.
I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Mila Dmitrivena Volkov. We named her after Dimitri’s grandmother, a strong woman who held the family together during the hardest times, and I chose Dmitrivena as her patronymic because Dimitri is her father in every way that matters.
She has blond hair that curls at the ends and blue eyes that came from Alexei’s genetics, but when she laughs, it’s Dimitri’s laugh—deep and genuine and rare.
When she’s stubborn (which is often) it's Dimitri’s determination in miniature form.
And when she looks at Dimitri, her whole face lights up with pure adoration.
I’ve watched my husband fall completely, hopelessly in love with this tiny human who has him wrapped around her little finger.
“Mila, it’s nap time,” he says, trying to sound stern but there’s no authority in his voice. Just endless patience and love. “You need your rest. Growing babies need sleep.”
She responds by blowing a raspberry at him.
He sighs. “Your mother thinks you get your stubbornness from me but if I’m being honest, I think you get it from her.”
“I heard that,” I say from the doorway.
He looks up in surprise, and his expression softens when he sees me. “How long have you been standing there?”
I lean against the door, arms crossed, smiling. “Long enough to see you lose an argument with a ten-month-old.”
He glances down at the baby. “She’s very persuasive,” he argues.
“She’s very stubborn,” I tease him, laughing softly when the tips of his ears pinken.
“Like I said, she gets it from you,” he retorts.
I cross the room and stroke Mila’s soft blond curls. Her eyes are already starting to droop despite her best efforts to stay awake. “She’s fighting it today,” I whisper, not daring to ruin her sleepiness.
“She fights it every day.” But his voice is full of affection. “I think she’s afraid she’ll miss something.”
Finally—finally—Mila’s eyes close, her little fist still clutched in Dimitri’s shirt. Carefully, oh so carefully, he lowers her into the crib with a caution he once reserved for handling explosives, as if one wrong shift might set off something far more dangerous than a bomb.
We both hold our breath as she settles. When she stays asleep, Dimitri exhales in relief.
Even after ten months, he’s still sometimes amazed that this tiny, perfect person is his responsibility. That she’s ours.
We tiptoe out of the nursery, and once the door clicks shut behind us, Dimitri pulls me into his arms.
“Your parents are coming over in an hour,” he reminds me.
I sigh. “I know.”
He must hear something in my voice because he pulls back to look at me, his face inquisitive. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
His eyes narrow slightly. Over the past year, we’ve learned to read each other like books. “Vera,” he says warningly.
Dammit. “I just…” I take a breath. “I have something to tell you. Before they get here.”
His expression immediately shifts to concern. In the past year, we’ve had our challenges—adjusting to parenthood, managing two families, dealing with the occasional territorial dispute, etcetera, etcetera, but we’ve faced everything together.
“What is it?" His hands are gentle on my arms. “Are you okay? Is it Mila? The families?”
“Everyone’s fine,” I assure him. Then I take a deep breath and just say it. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air, and Dimitri stares at me. “Pregnant.”
“Again,” I confirm, wincing slightly. “I know Mila’s only ten months old and we didn’t exactly plan this. I know it’s fast and we’re still figuring out one baby and—”
I don’t get to finish because he’s kissing me. It’s deep and passionate and so full of joy, I can feel it radiating through him.
When he pulls back, he’s grinning, and it’s such a rare, genuine expression that still takes my breath away every time I see it.
“You’re pregnant,” he says again, but this time, it’s full of wonder. His hand goes to my stomach, palm spreading wide like he’s already trying to feel the life growing there. “We’re having another baby.”
“We’re having another baby,” I confirm, starting to smile at his reaction but then biting my lip. “Are you... are you happy? I know it’s sooner than we planned—”
“Happy?” He laughs—that same laugh Mila inherited. “Vera, I’m overjoyed. Another baby. Another little person to love. Another piece of our family.”
He kisses my forehead. My cheeks. My lips.
“You’ve given me everything,” he says softly, his eyes soft and full of love. “A real marriage. A daughter who has me completely wrapped around her finger. And now another child.” His hand presses more firmly against my stomach. “How could I be anything but happy?”
I’m crying now (goddamn pregnancy hormones already making themselves known) and he’s holding me, both of us swaying slightly in the hallway outside our daughter’s nursery.
“I love you,” I whisper. “I love our life, our family. Everything we’ve accomplished.”
“I love you too.” His voice is rough with emotion. “So much it still scares me sometimes. The thought of anything happening to you or Mila or…” His hand flexes against my stomach. “Or this one. You’re my whole world. All of you.”
We stand there for a long moment, just holding each other.
I think about how far we’ve come, from that forced marriage to this. From enemies to a love so deep it’s become the foundation of everything good in our lives.
“I want you,” I murmur against his chest.
He pulls back to look at me, one eyebrow raised. “Your parents will be here in an hour.”
I raise my eyebrow to match his. “Then we’d better be quick.”
His grin turns wicked. “Challenge accepted.”
We make it to our bedroom with the kind of urgency that would be embarrassing if we weren’t already married and having our second child.
Dimitri kicks the door shut behind us and I’m already pulling at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
He helps me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside before his hands find the hem of my dress.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down my neck as he helps me out of my clothes. “So fucking beautiful, even more now that you’re carrying our baby again.”
"You have to say that,” I tell him. God, he’s such a corny bastard. “I’m pregnant.”
“I say it because it’s true.” He guides me backward until my knees hit the bed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."
We fall into bed together in tangled limbs and desperate kisses. His mouth finds mine as his hand slides between my thighs, and I gasp at the sensation.
“We don’t have much time,” I remind him breathlessly.
“Then I’ll have to work fast.”
And he does. His fingers work me expertly, knowing exactly where to touch with the perfect amount of pressure, knowing it’ll make me fall apart in record time. When I come, I cry out his name and his mouth swallows the sound.
Then he’s sheathed inside me, and we’re moving together with the practiced ease of two people who’ve learned every sound and sigh, every preference and pleasure point.
“I love you,” he breathes against my neck. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too. Always.”
We finish at the same time, both trembling and clinging to each other. Afterward, we lie tangled together, both breathing hard and grinning like teenagers who just snuck away from their parents.
“Your father is going to know exactly what we were doing,” Dimitri points out, his hand buried in my hair.
“Probably.” I run my fingers through the smattering of dark hair on his chest. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t. That’s what good fathers do.”
He grimaces, looking like he’s in pain. “Is that what I should do when Mila’s older? Pretend I don’t know?”
I laugh. “Dimitri, you’re going to be the most overprotective father in history. You’ll probably lock her in a tower for forever.”
His arm tightens around me. “Not forever,” he says indignantly before he looks thoughtful. “Maybe just until she’s thirty.”
I laugh harder. “Oh, yeah, because that’s reasonable.”
We’re both smiling, and I still can’t believe this is my life now. This man. This family. This love that started in darkness and somehow became the brightest thing I’ve ever known.
“We should get dressed,” I say eventually. “Before your daughter wakes up and your in-laws arrive.”
His arms become iron bands around me. “Five more minutes,” he says.
I groan and half-heartedly push away from him. “Dimitri, come on.”
“Please.” He pulls me closer, nuzzling his face into my shoulder. “Just five more minutes of this before the chaos starts again.”
I settle against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It’s strong and steady and my favorite sound in the world.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Five more minutes.”
And lying there in his arms, pregnant with our second child while our daughter sleeps peacefully down the hall, I realize something.
I’m not just surviving anymore.
I’m living. I’m happy.
I’m home.