Epilogue
VALENTINA
FIVE MONTHS LATER
Everything from my waist down is paralyzed.
Late pre-eclampsia. Thank God it was late!
Not being able to move my legs? It’s strange. Uncomfortable. Powerless.
But Roman is at my side, cupping my forehead and kissing the bridge of my nose as the doctor performs the incision so we may welcome our baby boy to the world.
“Everything is as it should be, Valya,” Roman assures me.
Of course, it is. He had an entire maternity wing built, hired one of the best obstetricians in the world, and assembled a surgical team on standby for emergencies.
Love burns in my chest for him. I never thought I would need a C-section.
Tears slide down my cheeks because it’s overwhelming.
I don’t know why. Thousands of women have C-sections every year.
It’s routine. But after a sleepless night of constant checks for seizures until I wanted to scream at the nurses, I feel wrung out, brittle, and fragile. Not a failure. Just…weak.
Not once in my life have I ever felt weak.
But Roman? He is my strength.
When they asked if I wanted to be put under, I refused. I need to be awake. I need to see my child born.
“Breathe, Moya Koroleva. We are almost there.” My husband brushes his knuckles across my cheek, warming my skin and my soul.
The curtain at my chest keeps me from seeing, but I feel the strange tugging, the pressure deep inside as the doctor works. I squeeze Roman’s hand. His emerald eyes lock with mine, grounding me. Seconds stretch.
And then—
A rush of relief, as if something inside me finally lets go.
But no sound.
My heart lurches into my throat. The baby. Our son. Why isn’t he crying?
“Roman.” My voice breaks, sheer panic tearing through my chest.
The doctor is calm, steady. A suction tube clears our son’s nose and mouth. Then—just a brisk, tender spank to his tiny bottom.
A wail. Thin, raw, piercing—and the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.
I sob. Roman kisses my temple. “Do you hear him, Valya? Our son.” His voice is fierce, reverent. “Like me, moya zhena. Calm. Controlled. Until he is forced to roar.”
I nod through tears as they lift the squirming, red little body into view before whisking him to be checked. He is perfect. A mop of beautiful blonde curls. He is ours.
I think it’s over. Relief cascades through me. But then the doctor doesn’t stop. She adjusts her instruments, glances toward her team, and bends back to her work between my legs.
Roman stiffens beside me. I feel his hand tighten around mine.
“Why isn’t she sewing me up?” I whisper.
The doctor looks over the curtain with a spark of amazement in her eyes. “Mrs. Makarova…there is another.”
“What?” I ask, panting, breathless. My chest seizes.
Another rush of pressure, pulling, tugging. Seconds later, I hear it—another cry. Higher, sharper, furious with life.
“It’s a girl!” the doctor proclaims, holding her quaking, screaming form up for us to see. “A hidden twin. It’s not unheard of. Quite rare but not impossible. Not even our instruments detected her heartbeat.”
A girl. Our daughter.
Roman laughs in disbelief, a rough, startled sound that bursts into warmth. His forehead falls against mine. “Our cunning little girl. Just like her mother, waiting for her grand entrance.”
Tears stream down my face as they hold her up. Two. We have two.
My breath catches. I zero in on the closest nurse who approaches with our son. I smile because he’s already calmed. No more crying. Just sweet, tender gurgles. Not like our daughter.
“God, she has a set of lungs on her!” Roman marvels with a laugh.
I can’t stop crying. But when the nurse offers to put our naked son on my chest, I look up at Roman. “Would you mind holding him first, Romy?”
“Of course. I was going to insist on holding one of them before you.” He adjusts the medical, plastic gown and takes our oldest child in his arms, wrapping his small, naked form onto his chest. He lifts a brow, however, and I know he is wondering why I am waiting for our daughter first.
They don’t need to suction her nose. They don’t need to slap her bottom. She’s still wailing, slick with blood and fluid, her tiny fists thrashing against the shock of the world.
My heart lurches.
Not because she is messy. Not because she is loud.
But because of the full head of dark, near-black hair that glistens wet under the surgical lights. That cursed inheritance—it belongs to the monsters who tried to break us.
For a split second, pain tears through me from memory. Roman’s father. Roman’s brother. Their shadows in my daughter’s hair.
But also…Sasha. Yes, she has my brother’s hair.
I choke on a breath, my arms straining up before I can stop myself. “Mine.”
The nurse hesitates, ready to wipe her, but I won’t allow it. I need her. I need to claim her before I lose my nerve.
“Give her to me now.”
And when they place her slick, warm body on my chest, all the blood and fluid cease to matter.
My skin knows her. My heart knows her. The shadows vanish.
Because when she roots against me, when she presses her damp cheek to my breast, I see only her.
Our daughter. Her wails fade to soft cries.
Soft cries turn nonexistent when she latches onto my breast so flawlessly.
And this time, the earth moves for me too.
Roman laughs beside me while rocking our son. “We did not discuss any girl names? Do you have any, Valya?”
I nod. “Vivienne Roksana. I thought of Anastasia. It’s beautiful but seems a bit cliché.”
“Vivienne is beautiful and perfect as her mother,” he agrees before lowering his chin to our sweet son, who makes little sucking noises.
When our eyes clash, I nod, and Roman lowers our baby boy to my other breast. It takes some more testing until he latches on. I love how paradoxical their personalities are so far. After so much debate, we finally agreed on a boy’s name.
Radimir Sasha Makarova. I imagine we will opt for the nickname Rad as he grows older. Or Radim. Regardless, our baby boy is living up to his name. It means radiant peace. And it’s what we need more than ever.
But Roman and I will never exist in the realm of radiant peace. Only in the most threadbare definition. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
LACTATION KINK
“Get the fuck away from me!” I spit fire and chuck the nearest vase at Roman, my pussy damn near burning…on its knees for the relief only his cock can bring.
And the devil knows it.
With carnal emerald eyes, Roman rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, baring the bulging forearms with the throbbing veins, pulsing with raw masculinity.
My undoing.
It’s been three whole months since our twins were born. I’ve been holding back. Okay. Really holding back. And my husband knows it. He knows why.
A muscle bounces in his stony jaw.
“No.”
It’s all he says. Eyes predatory, tongue licking the bottom seam of his lip as he roams his gaze across me.
I half-blame myself since he left the gift box on the bed.
So beautiful with the decorative red and gold ribbon.
I couldn’t resist opening it to find the priceless treasure inside.
One I’m wearing beneath the silk robe. A matching lingerie set of pure diamonds, the jewels glimmering beneath the dim chandelier light above our heads.
The sunset bleeds colors on the horizon behind us, the warm glow slanting through the balcony’s double glass doors.
It’s the night of Valentine’s Day. The perfect night.
And I’m in the most extreme denial ever.
A pointless denial—especially when he’s been on his best behavior. Until tonight.
The wet heat thrashing inside me screams at how much I love his dominance and possession, how much I want him to conquer me.
When I bump into those double doors, my hands fumbling with the silver handle, he twists his lips into a smirk. Because my breasts are leaking.
Our eyes meet in a stalemate, our lips both pressed in a tight seam. He cocks his head. But all I can think of is the other cock. So…I blink first. My eyes flick down. The bulge in his pants jerks.
“Shit!” I exclaim and fumble with the handle, getting it open so I can escape onto the balcony. It’s not an escape. It’s a trap. And I know it.
Roman closes in. Sleek as a dark predator, he advances onto the balcony, closing the door behind him. The icy Alaskan wind lashes at our bodies, but it’s well above freezing for February.
“Not fair!” I moan when he gets me in his arms, kissing me hard and furiously while forcing me up against the corner of the railing.
“I will never fight fair,” he purrs, dark and silky. “And you have been fighting me, Valya. Fighting me for months. No more,” he finishes in a growl. “I’m calling you on your bullshit. We both know it’s bullshit.”
“Roman, I-I—”
All my protests die when his lips trail down my neck, then he lowers the lingerie strap down my shoulder, tugging to expose my left breast to the fading sunlight. His mouth closes around one erect nipple, hot and wet, and the bud is starved for his attention.
“Ahh. Twins. You have been producing more with a little help from me.”
“You?” I pant, arching my throat as he applies strong suction to take my breast milk, drinking from the teat.
“Mmm, da.” He flicks his eyes up to mine, a telltale gleam there. “Hormone boosters. Your body has responded as well as I’d hoped.”
I snap, my hands flailing, weakly attacking him because the motivation might be there, but my energy is not.
Especially when he yanks the diamond-encrusted bra right off my form and chucks it onto the stone of the balcony.
I gasp from him taking control and trapping me against the balcony, gripping my wrists and pinning them at the base of my spine.
All it does is thrust out my breasts more.
The nipples keep leaking. So full. Too full.
They need to be drained before they become engorged. Painful.