Epilogue - Katya
The garden behind the Letvin estate is alive with late-summer light—golden hour spilling across the long wooden tables, catching in the wine glasses and the silverware, turning everything soft and warm. Fairy lights are strung between the old oak trees, not yet lit but waiting for dusk.
The air smells like grilled rosemary, fresh bread, and the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine climbing the trellis. Laughter floats over the lawn—my brothers, Tikhon’s siblings, cousins, in-laws—all mixed together in a way that would have felt impossible a year ago.
I stand near the edge of the patio, barefoot on the cool stone, watching it all. My dress is simple—cream linen, sleeveless, falling just above the knee. No pretense.
No armor. Just me. And Tikhon.
He’s across the lawn, talking to Ilariy and Alexey, a beer in one hand, the other gesturing as he laughs at something. He’s wearing a white linen shirt, rolled to the elbows, with sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint scars on his forearms—reminders of the night everything almost ended.
His hair is a little longer now, curling at the ends, and when he turns his head, the late sun catches the green in his eyes. My heart does the same stupid flip it always does.
He feels me looking. His gaze finds mine across the grass—immediate, focused, like the rest of the world drops away. A slow smile spreads across his face. Not polite. Not careful. The kind of smile that says mine without a word.
I smile back—helpless, bright, the kind of smile I never used to let anyone see.
He excuses himself from the conversation and walks toward me—long strides, unhurried, but purposeful. When he reaches me, he doesn’t stop—just cups my face with both hands and kisses me.
Right there. In front of everyone.
Not a quick peck. Not a polite brush.
A real kiss—deep, slow, claiming. His thumbs stroke my cheeks, fingers sliding into my hair. I melt into him, hands fisting in his shirt, rising on my toes. Someone whistles—probably Lev. Someone else laughs—Arina, maybe, but I don’t care.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi,” I whisper back, breathless.
He kisses me again—briefer, softer—then tucks me against his side, arm around my waist, hand splayed possessively over my hip. We don’t pretend anymore. No careful distance. No separate chairs.
No hiding how much we touch, how often we look at each other like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. We’re loud about it now—in the best way. Unapologetic.
The family gathering is bigger than usual—both sides, no tension in the air for once. Agafon is at the grill, flipping steaks with the same focus he once used when giving orders.
Bogdan and Faddey are arguing over something trivial—probably sports—while Tatiana rolls her eyes and refills wine glasses. Ilariy and Arina are tangled together on a blanket under one of the trees, laughing at something private.
Alexey is talking to Nikolai Orlov, both of them looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen them. Even Lev is behaving—mostly—charming one of the cousins instead of causing chaos.
Tikhon presses a kiss to my temple. “You good?”
I lean into him. “Better than good.”
He hums, satisfied. “Heard from the contractor today. The new shop’s framing is done. They’re starting on the ovens next week.”
My heart lifts—still a little sore, but lighter every day. “Bloom” is rising from the ashes—same neighborhood, a bigger footprint, and reinforced everything. Bulletproof glass disguised as regular windows. Panic button under the counter. Cameras that actually belong to us.
A small café corner with four tables and a chalkboard menu. Space for classes. Space for me to teach kids how to bake without fear. Space to breathe.
Tikhon made it happen—quietly, efficiently, no fanfare. He didn’t take credit. Just handed me the blueprints one night and asked, “Is this what you pictured?”
It was better.
I turn in his arms, rise on my toes, kiss him again—slow, lingering. He smiles against my mouth.
“People are watching,” he murmurs.
“Let them.”
Someone calls us over—Agafon, waving a tongs. “Food’s ready!”
We walk hand in hand. No hiding. No pretending.
At the table, the conversation turns to Fadir.
Agafon sets a platter of steaks down, voice low. “He’s gone. For good.”
I tense. Tikhon’s hand tightens on mine.
“Dead?” I ask.
Ilariy shakes his head. “Exiled. We drove him out, him and his siblings. They’re scattered—different locations. Non-aggression pact signed in blood. If any of them step foot in this city again, it’s war. They know it.”
Tikhon exhales—long, slow. “You sure?”
Agafon meets his eyes. “We made sure. Multiple sources. Multiple borders. They’re gone.”
Relief crashes through me—quiet, deep. I lean into Tikhon. He kisses my temple again—soft, grateful.
Tatiana raises her glass. “To peace. And to Bloom.”
We all lift our glasses. The clink echoes across the lawn—clear, bright, final.
Later, when the sun is gone and the fairy lights are glowing, Tikhon and I slip away to the garden’s edge. The night is warm, jasmine heavy in the air. He pulls me against him, back to his chest, arms around my waist.
We watch the family—laughing, talking, finally at ease.
“I used to hate these gatherings,” I say quietly. “Always felt like a performance. Like I had to be perfect.”
He rests his chin on my shoulder. “Not anymore.”
“No.” I turn my head and kiss his jaw. “Not with you.”
He smiles against my skin. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” I turn in his arms, hands on his chest. “More than I thought possible.”
We kiss under the lights—slow, deep, unhurried. No rush. No fear. Just us.
When we pull apart, he brushes my hair behind my ear. “Ready to go home?”
I nod. “Home.”
We walk back inside—hand in hand, no pretense, no hiding.
The future is bright.
And it’s ours.
***
Six weeks later, Bloom opens.
The new shop is everything I dreamed and more. The front is wide glass—reinforced, but clear enough to let in floods of natural light. The name is painted in elegant gold script above the door: Bloom. Simple. Strong. A promise.
Inside, the space is open and airy—a long marble island in the center, double wall ovens gleaming stainless steel, a walk-in cooler humming softly in the back. Open shelving holds clear glass jars of ingredients—flour, sugar, cocoa, dried lavender—everything visible, everything within reach.
A small café corner sits by the window: four round tables, mismatched chairs painted in soft pastels, a chalkboard menu listing daily specials and my new favorites—lavender-honey shortbread, lemon-basil tarts, and pistachio-rose macarons.
Classes are already booked for the next month: kids on Saturdays, adults on Wednesday evenings.
I stand behind the counter on opening day, apron tied, heart hammering. The bell over the door chimes every few minutes—friends, family, and regulars who followed me here. Tatiana is behind the counter with me, grinning as she hands out free samples.
Arina and Ilariy are at a table near the window, stealing kisses between bites of croissant. My brothers are scattered—Agafon near the door like a sentinel, Bogdan charming a group of customers, Faddey quietly restocking the pastry case.
And Tikhon.
He’s everywhere and nowhere—carrying trays from the back, wiping down tables, greeting people with that quiet confidence that makes everyone feel welcome.
When our eyes meet across the room, he smiles—slow, private, just for me. My chest aches with it—love so big it hurts.
By closing time, the shop is quiet again. Just us. I lock the door, flip the sign to Closed, and turn to find him leaning against the marble island, arms crossed, watching me.
“Busy day,” he says.
“Perfect day.”
He pushes off the counter and walks to me. “Proud of you.”
I step into his arms. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
He kisses me—slow, deep, tasting like coffee and sugar. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Want to christen the new kitchen?”
I laugh, bright and wild. “Thought you’d never ask.”
We barely make it two steps before Tikhon’s hands slide under my thighs and lift me straight onto the cold marble island.
The chill shocks a gasp out of me, quick and sharp, then I’m moaning low as he steps in close, his body pressed hard against mine.
Heat radiates through my dress, insistent, right where I’m already aching.
My skirt hikes up in a rush, fabric bunching around my hips, whispering over my skin.
His mouth finds mine again, rougher now, hungry.
Our tongues tangle, teeth scraping, the kiss turning messy and desperate fast. I taste coffee on his lips, a hint of stolen macaron, but mostly just him, raw and warm and familiar.
My hands can’t get enough—I’m grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, popping buttons loose one by one.
He growls into my mouth when cool air hits his chest, and in answer, he shoves my dress higher, bunching it at my waist so the silk pools around me like cream.
“Fuck, Katya,” he rasps, voice rough. “Look at you.”
I glance down—legs spread wide around his hips, black lace panties soaked and clinging, thighs already slick.
He stares, pupils blown dark, jaw clenched so tight I see the muscle twitch.
His hand drifts up my inner thigh, slow and sure, fingers brushing the damp lace.
My hips jerk, chasing his touch without thinking.
He hooks a finger under the edge, pulls the fabric aside.
His fingertips stroke my bare skin, and I cry out, sharp and needy. He circles my clit, once, twice, then slides two fingers inside me with no warning. I’m so wet he sinks in easily, curling his fingers just right, making my vision blur at the edges.
“Already dripping for me,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and sin. “You thought about this all day, didn’t you? While you piped those perfect little roses, smiling for customers, you were soaked for me under that pretty dress, just waiting.”
“Yes,” I gasp, head falling back. “God, yes.”
He pumps his fingers, slow and deep, thumb rolling over my clit in tight, perfect circles. My hips rock against his hand, shameless, desperate for more. The wet, obscene sounds fill the quiet kitchen, tangled up with my moans and his filthy praise.
“So fucking beautiful when you fall apart,” he growls. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
It doesn’t take long. Tension winds tighter and tighter, then snaps. I come with a broken cry, clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking, back arching off the marble. He keeps working me through it, slow but steady, until I’m trembling and spent, whimpering and boneless.
He pulls his fingers free and brings them to his mouth, licking them clean, eyes on me the whole time. The sight sends a fresh shiver through me.
Then he’s fumbling with his belt, urgent and rough. My hands join his, shaking, tugging his zipper down, pushing pants and briefs just low enough. He’s thick, hard, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. I wrap my hand around him, stroke once, firm, and he groans like it hurts.
“Katya—fuck—need you.”
He lifts me again, higher this time, and carries me through the swinging door into the tiny office at the back. The door slams behind us. He sets me on the desk—papers scatter, a pen rolls to the floor. I don’t care. I grab his open shirt and pull him down, legs locking around his waist.
He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t tease.
He lines himself up and thrusts—deep, hard, all at once. I cry out, half pain, half pleasure, fingers digging into his shoulders. He stays still for a beat, buried to the hilt, letting us both feel the stretch, the heat, the almost-too-much fullness.
Then he starts to move.
Hard. Fast. Unstoppable.
The desk rocks under us, scraping across the floor.
His hips drive into me again and again, hitting that spot that makes my vision explode with stars.
I hold on tight—nails dragging down his back, legs squeezing his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him closer.
He groans my name against my throat, teeth grazing my pulse.
“You’re mine,” he growls, voice ragged. “Say it.”
“Yours,” I gasp. “Yours—fuck—Tikhon—”
He angles deeper, hitting that perfect spot, over and over. The tension builds again, tighter, hotter, almost unbearable. I’m shaking, teetering right on the edge, so close—
“Come with me,” he rasps. “Let me feel you—fuck—come on my cock, Katya—”
And I fall apart.
The orgasm crashes through me, raw and electric—every muscle clenched tight, my body gripping him, dragging him with me to the edge.
He thrusts again, then once more, deeper this time, almost wild, then buries himself completely and comes, shuddering, his groan breaking in my ear.
I feel him pulse inside me, hot and endless.
We collapse together, foreheads pressed, still gasping, hearts pounding so hard I swear I can hear his through my skin.
He doesn’t pull out. He just stays there, softening slowly, his lips finding mine over and over—gentle, almost reverent, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
“I love you,” he breathes into my mouth.
I can’t stop smiling—dazed, floating, completely his.
“I love you too.”
We lie tangled for a long time—his arms tight around me, my legs hooked over his waist, neither of us in any rush to move. Eventually, he eases out, slow and careful, kissing me everywhere he can reach—my forehead, the tip of my nose, my mouth, until I’m laughing and breathless all over again.
We get cleaned up, still grinning, making fun of the mess—the scattered papers, the pen cup on its side, my skirt wrinkled beyond saving. He tries to help smooth it down, his fingers teasing up my thighs, and I button his shirt all wrong on purpose just so he’ll roll his eyes at me.
He kisses me again, long and sweet, before we finally step back out to the front.
Tatiana is waiting, eyebrow raised. “You two look… flushed.”
My face goes hot. “Oh, shut up,” I mumble.
Tikhon just grins, completely shameless, and swipes another macaron from the display case.
The rest of the day flies by in a haze—customers, laughter, the kitchen full of the smell of baking, Tikhon sticking around, somehow making everyone fall in love with him. When it’s time to close, we lock up together. He flips the sign, turns to me.
“Ready to go home?”
I look around—my shop, my dream, rebuilt and better than ever. Then I look at him—the man who waited for me, who never gave up on me, who loves me more than I ever thought anyone could.
I reach for his hand.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
We step out into the cold night, fingers locked, snow drifting down quiet as a secret.
The future’s bright.
It’s ours. Always.
*****
THE END