Extended Epilogue Samuil
TEN YEARS LATER
The morning mist parts like a curtain, revealing my eldest perched on the paddock fence. Louisa’s curls catch hints of gold in the wan sunlight—just like her mother’s. But that laser focus as she studies our newest rescue? That’s pure Litvinov.
“He favors his right front leg,” she announces to me without turning around. “And see how he keeps his head tilted? Something’s wrong with his ear.”
I lean against the warped wood beside her. “Good catch, dochen’ka. What’s your recommendation?”
“Call the vet. But first—” She slides down and approaches the gelding with the quiet confidence Nova’s spent years teaching her. “We need to make him feel safe.”
My chest tightens as I watch my daughter move closer to the skittish horse. A decade ago, I would have barked orders to keep her away from potential danger. Now, I understand the power of patience, of earning trust through gentle persistence.
I stay quiet and watch.
The horse’s ears flick forward as Louisa murmurs to him in Russian. Another gift from her mother—Nova insisted our girls learn both languages from birth, claiming it would help them bridge their heritage. She was right, as usual.
“Papa?” Louisa glances over her shoulder, golden-brown eyes serious. “Do you think he came from bad people? Like the ones you and Mama used to fight?”
I consider my answer carefully. At eleven, she’s old enough to know some of our history, but young enough that certain details need protecting. “Good things often come from dark places. Look at him now—he’s already choosing to trust you.”
The horse stretches his neck toward my daughter’s outstretched hand, and I see echoes of Nova in her quiet smile of triumph.
A sound up the drive draws my attention.
When I turn and look, I see motion: a car slicing through the forest ringing the property.
It’s only when I recognize the familiar silhouette of the Range Rover that I can relax and my world can realign.
Nova’s behind the wheel, and as they draw closer, I spy our seven-year-old twins vibrating with energy in the back seat. Even from here, I catch the gleam of mischief in their eyes—a look that’s gotten them banned from three nannies and counting.
“Trouble incoming,” I warn Louisa, who’s still communing with the rescue horse.
Nova parks and steps out in worn jeans and my old hockey jersey, looking more beautiful than any of the society wives who used to throw themselves at me. The sight of her still hits like that first day with Rufus—pure, unexpected joy wrapped in chaos.
“Papa!” Mila and Natasha tumble from the car like puppies, dark braids flying. “We got ice cream in the village and Mama let us?—”
“—pet ALL the dogs at the shelter,” they finish in unison.
Nova catches my eye over their heads. “I may have created monsters. They’re campaigning for a whole pack now.”
“Three daughters, three dogs, seventeen rescue horses…” I pull her close, breathing in the vanilla-jasmine scent of her hair. “I’ve been outnumbered for a long time. At this point, what’s a few more?”
She stretches up to kiss me, and I marvel at how this—us—still feels like coming home. The ice king of Chicago melted years ago, replaced by a man who measures wealth in moments like these.
“I second the adoption. The new horse needs a vet,” Louisa declares, joining our huddle. “And possibly a friend.”
Nova’s eyes light up with that familiar spark of purpose, and I already know I’m going to lose this battle. Not that I mind anymore.
My wife’s fingers thread through mine as we watch the mayhem unfold. The garden stretches before us, a living tapestry the Morrises have woven from wilderness. Climbing roses climb trellises like nature’s graffiti, defiant and beautiful against the castle’s stern face.
“Mama, look!” Mila brandishes a handful of wildflowers while Natasha chases the newest pack addition, Roland, through the paths. The Great Dane puppy bounds ahead on gigantic paws he hasn’t grown into, all enthusiasm and no grace. Just like his predecessor.
I catch Nova watching our old dogs lounging in the shade. Rufus and Ruby have gone grey around the muzzles, but their eyes are bright as they supervise Roland’s antics with regal patience. The sight hits me in the chest—how many years have passed, marked by the silver in their fur.
My own beard has enough gray in it these days to feel a pang of sympathy.
Nova’s eyes shimmer with tears, and I know she’s thinking the same thing. I squeeze her hand, drawing her closer. “Remember when Rufus knocked you into me that first time?”
Her laugh rings out, clear as bells. “God, I wanted to die of embarrassment. And you were so smug about it.”
“I was trying not to show how attracted I was to the tiny spitfire cursing at her Great Dane.”
“Liar.” She bumps my shoulder. “You were absolutely showing it. Though, to be fair, so was I. That’s why Hope recorded me talking about climbing you like a tree.”
I press my lips to her cheek. “Best gift I ever received.”
Roland crashes through a flower bed, pursued by the shrieking twins, and Nova sighs. “Should we rescue the roses?”
“Let them be,” I suggest instead. “Some destruction leads to better things growing in its place.”
The great hall still looms the way it always has—a little gloomy, a little frightening, a little musty in a way that Mrs. Morris can’t seem to scrub out—but tonight, it’s an easy place to be. Warm, bright, comforting.
Crystal goblets catch candlelight like diamonds, and silver place settings gleam against dark wood. Yet my attention keeps drifting to the way Nova corrals our hellions into their seats with tactical precision.
“Papa, tell Mila to stop stealing my bread.” Natasha’s scowl is pure Nova.
“I didn’t steal it. I negotiated an aggressive merger between your plate and mine.”
I hide my smile behind my wine glass as Nova shoots me a look that clearly says, Your daughter learned that from you.
Louisa, ever the peacekeeper, slides her own bread onto Natasha’s plate.
The meal passes in semi-controlled chaos—business reports and school tales mingling with the clink of silver against china. My past self would have demanded rigid etiquette, would have seen the children’s chatter as weakness to be culled.
Now, I understand that their laughter is its own kind of power.
When Mrs. Morris brings out marshmallows instead of her usual elaborate desserts, the twins practically levitate out of their chairs. Even Louisa’s careful composure cracks with excitement.
As a family, we migrate to the loch’s edge, where I’ve already built a fire. The girls huddle together, discussing optimal toasting angles and rotation speeds like they’re planning a military campaign. Nova catches my eye and grins.
I pull her closer as our daughters execute their marshmallow strategy with ruthless efficiency. The fire paints everything in amber and gold.
Once everyone has been sugar-sedated, we recline on blankets laid out on the soft grass by the water. Right on cue, Nova’s phone chimes with Hope’s ringtone—some pop song the twins have been torturing me with for weeks. My wife’s face lights up as she answers, and suddenly, the fire’s glow has competition.
“Uncle Myles!” the girls screech, abandoning their dandelion-crown-weaving operation to cluster around the screen. I catch glimpses of my best friend’s grin as he bounces his son on his knee.
“Looking distinguished there, old man,” Myles drawls at me. “The silver fox thing suits you.”
I flip him off behind the children’s backs, which makes Hope snort-laugh. “You’re one to talk. That receding hairline’s getting worse by the minute.”
“Play nice, boys,” Nova warns, but her eyes dance with amusement. “Hope, when’s your flight getting in?”
“Thursday morning. Leo’s been practicing his Russian with that app you sent—” Hope starts.
“Dyadya!” Leo interrupts. “Ya lyublyu medvedyev!”
I chuckle. “Good job, buddy. I love bears, too,” I tell him, oddly touched that my godson is learning my mother tongue.
The conversation flows around me like water—Hope describing Leo’s latest obsession with trains, Myles complaining about Chicago winters, the girls babbling over each other to share their latest adventures. I watch Nova in these moments, drinking in the way happiness makes her glow from within.
After a while, the Morrises come to fetch the girls and ferry them all off to bed. They moan, but after a kiss on the forehead, they each go marching off as they’re told.
Nova starts to follow them, but I snag her hand to keep her with me. “Not you,” I murmur. “You and I have somewhere else to be.”
She leans back against my chest, trusting. “Another surprise?” Her hand floats up to tweak my nose playfully. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Samuil Litvinov.”
“Don’t I know it,” I grumble. I stand and pull her up with me. “But you’ll have to walk a bit.”
I guide her down the torch-lit path to the bend in the lake where I’ve spent the last six months secretly building her gift. When I uncover her eyes, her sharp inhale tells me everything.
The boathouse rises from the mist like a fairy tale, its windows glowing with warmth. But it’s the vessel inside that brings tears to her eyes—an almost exact replica of that first broken-down boat she restored when we arrived here, sized up for family adventures but still intimate enough for nights like this.
“You impossible man,” she whispers, fingers trailing over the smoothed wood. “How did you keep this hidden?”
“I can still maintain some mystery.” I help her into the boat, then join her. “I didn’t leave that capacity at the bottom of the loch alongside my dignity.”
Nova’s laugh rebounds across the water as we row together, our strokes matching perfectly like we’ve done this a million times before. “That’s an understatement. But that night did more good than harm in the end. It did get you to finally let Myles stay.”
I catch her gaze in the starlight. “Some storms are worth weathering.”
She reaches across the space between us, her fingers tangling with mine. Above, the stars wheel in their ancient dance, witnesses to how love can transform even the coldest heart into something warm and wonderful, if given enough time and trust.
I hope they look away for what I have planned next, though.
Because it’s downright sinful.
I tug Nova into my lap, relishing her soft gasp as she straddles me. The boat rocks gently beneath us, water sloshing like soft whispers against the wooden hull.
“Remember our first time?” I trail kisses down her neck, tasting salt and jasmine. “When you were soaked from Rufus pushing us into Lake Michigan?”
“Mmm. You were so controlled then.” She grinds against me, deliberate and wicked. “Until you weren’t.”
My hands slip under her sweater, finding bare skin. Even after all these years, touching her feels like coming alive. Like breaking through ice into rushing water below.
“I’m still not.” I claim her mouth, swallowing her moan as I palm her breasts. She arches into my touch, shameless and perfect.
The boat sways with our movements as we shed layers between heated kisses. Nova’s skin glows in the starlight, and I take my time mapping every inch with my lips, my tongue, my teeth.
When I finally slide inside her, she clenches around me with a gasp that echoes across the water.
“Quiet, krasavitsa,” I warn, gripping her hips. “Unless you want to scandalize Mrs. Morris.”
Nova retaliates by rolling her hips in that way that makes my vision blur. “Make me.”
Challenge accepted. I flip us so she’s beneath me on the cushioned bench, careful to keep our balance. Then I proceed to make her forget her own name, much less any concern for volume control.
Later, wrapped in blankets and each other, Nova traces the bullet scar on my shoulder. “I love you, Samuil Litvinov.”
I capture her fingers and press them to my lips. “I love you, too, Nova Litvinov.”
Years ago, an untrained Great Dane dragged Nova into my life. Now, watching her nuzzle in my arms under the Scottish stars, I silently thank that damn dog for having absolutely no manners at all.