24. Anastasia
24
ANASTASIA
"L ook at them," Anna murmurs, her voice soft with wonder.
I follow her gaze across the room, where Viktor sits cross-legged on the floor, sunlight streaming through the windows and catching on Sofia's dark curls. My breath catches. The ruthless man who's executed people without blinking is now completely absorbed in our daughter's tiny fingers as they explore his watch.
Three days since Sofia arrived, and I still can't believe what I'm seeing.
"I've never seen her take to someone so fast," Anna says, shaking her head. "Especially not with a man—she's always so careful with strangers."
"Blood recognizes blood," I say, folding one of Sofia's tiny shirts, grateful for something to do with my hands. My heart's doing strange things in my chest, and I don't want to examine why. "It's like they've known each other forever, isn't it? Like they were just... waiting to find each other."
Viktor glances up, catching me watching them. Something flickers across his face—vulnerability that would get him killed in my father's world. For a heartbeat, he's just a father discovering his child, not the man who's infiltrated the Bratva to destroy everything I've known.
The sight twists something inside me. I turn away quickly, arranging Sofia's bottles by size, focusing on the small task instead of the warmth spreading through me.
"She's settling in beautifully," Anna says, mercifully pulling me back from thoughts I can't afford to let linger. "Sleep's normal despite the time change. Appetite's good too."
I grab onto the practical information like a lifeline. "Any anxiety? Is she wary around him at all?"
"Not even a little," Anna says, raising an eyebrow and nodding toward Viktor. "It's almost weird how much she trusts him, actually. Like she just... knows him."
Viktor rises in that fluid way he has, Sofia secure against his chest. He moves differently with her—still deadly graceful, but careful. Protective in a way I've never seen before.
"We should move her things to my quarters," he says, voice low. His eyes—identical to Sofia's—lock with mine, saying much more than his words. "Easier to keep her safe if we're all behind one security perimeter."
"Your quarters?" I keep my tone neutral, even as my pulse jumps.
"My suite," he clarifies, watching me too closely. "The study's already set up for her. Your rooms could connect through the east corridor. Makes sense, logistically."
"Or we could just call it what it is," Anna interrupts bluntly. "You're a family. Sofia's happiest with both of you near. Security's tighter. Why dance around it?"
Viktor's expression shifts—surprise at Anna's directness, a quick mental calculation, and something else, something that sends heat rushing to my face despite years of learning to control my reactions.
"This isn't just about security," he says, his voice steady but loaded with meaning that ripples between us. "Sofia needs us both. Consistency. That's all I'm saying."
I almost smile at how he wraps what he wants in practical terms—typical Viktor, hiding the man behind the operative. "Very practical," I say, my voice cooler than the heat coursing through my veins. "Maybe we should talk about the... less practical aspects when Sofia isn't watching our every move."
His pupils widen, hunger flashing across his face before he locks it down. "Agreed. Some conversations aren't meant for little ears with big brains."
Sofia twists in his arms, fixing me with those eerie silver eyes—so like her father's—and reaches one imperious hand toward me. My body responds before my mind decides, moving into their space as if pulled by invisible strings.
I cross some invisible line stepping close to them, and I know it. Viktor passes Sofia to me, our fingers brushing in a way that feels anything but accidental. The contact sends electricity through me, bringing back flashes of tangled sheets and Paris darkness.
Sofia settles against me, her familiar weight anchoring me as her tiny hand pats my cheek. She smells of baby powder and something that's uniquely her—a scent that calms me instantly.
"The engagement party's in five days," Viktor says, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Back to playing our parts."
Reality crashes in—the dangerous world waiting beyond these walls, watching our every move. The ceremony will pull in power players from all over Eastern Europe, everyone looking for weakness, for advantage.
"My father called this morning," I say, automatically turning Sofia away from the windows. "Everything's set—guest list, security, the whole show."
"We need to be on the same page," Viktor says, shifting to shield Sofia with his body. The movement is pure instinct, not calculation, and it hits me how much fatherhood has already changed him. "Everyone will be watching us closely."
"Nikolai Petrov worries me," I admit, tightening my hold on Sofia. "Those comments about my Swiss 'projects' weren't just small talk. He's fishing for something."
"The extraction was perfect," Viktor counters, though his eyes narrow. "Every checkpoint clean, no trail."
"His interest is too specific to be random." My heart speeds up despite knowing we're safe right now. "That line about my 'independent studies'—he meant something by it."
Viktor steps closer, instinctively creating another barrier between Sofia and any potential threat. I can feel his body heat, smell his clean, masculine scent—the same one that haunted me for months after Paris.
"We'll watch him at the ceremony," he promises, voice hardening. "Every move, every conversation. If he so much as hints he knows about Sofia, we pull her out immediately."
The shared need to protect our daughter creates a bridge between us, something solid amid all the complications and lies.
"We need something more permanent than just plans," I say, a solution crystallizing in my mind. "Something legal, something outside the Bratva's reach."
His eyes sharpen, mind working fast. "Legal documentation. Parental rights. A real marriage license, recognized by legitimate authorities."
"Exactly," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "Our arrangement works for now, but legal papers give Sofia protection no matter what—inheritance, custody, finances—all secure regardless of what happens in the Bratva."
"You're suggesting we make this marriage real?" His voice stays steady, but something flickers in his expression—something personal beneath the tactical mask.
"I'm suggesting we protect our daughter with everything available to us," I clarify, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Legal marriage creates a family unit that's protected no matter what."
The silence between us isn't just about strategy—it's charged with possibilities neither of us has dared mention. A future beyond security threats and Bratva games.
"From fake engagement to real marriage," he says softly, the gentleness in his voice catching me off guard. "Performance becoming reality."
"For Sofia," I insist, needing to keep some kind of boundary, even as my body betrays me with its awareness of him. "Legal protection, that's all."
"For Sofia," he agrees, but his eyes tell a different story. "And maybe something more than just paperwork."
Before I can respond, Sofia starts squirming against me—her telltale sign that nap time is approaching and she's planning to fight it. I'm almost grateful for the distraction from the dangerous territory we're entering.
"Nap time's coming," I say, relieved to focus on something simpler.
"I'll handle nap duty," Anna says, appearing beside us with suspiciously perfect timing. "You two probably have things to discuss without tiny observers."
Her knowing look makes me realize how obvious our tension must be. The electricity between us—stubborn despite everything complicated between us—is apparently visible to anyone paying attention.
Viktor hands Sofia to Anna reluctantly, his fingers lingering as if memorizing how she feels before letting go. His hand brushes mine during the exchange, a touch that shoots heat straight through me.
Once Anna takes Sofia away, the air between us changes—charged with everything we're not saying. The marriage conversation, the pull between us, the future neither of us planned for.
"We should nail down the security details for the ceremony," I say, falling back on work because it's safer than feelings. "Response plans for anything unexpected."
"Anastasia." My name in his mouth is soft, nothing like his usual commanding tone. "We can't keep pretending this is just business."
His directness cuts through my defenses, exposing the mess of feelings I've been fighting since Sofia arrived. The attraction that never died, the possibility of something real between us.
"What exactly are we pretending about?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady while my pulse races. "Beyond the arrangement we already have?"
He steps closer, giving me plenty of time to back away. I don't move. His hand rises to my face, fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who can kill with those same hands. My body reacts instantly—nipples tightening, heat pooling between my thighs.
"This," he says simply, his voice rougher now. "Whatever this is between us. It's been there since Paris. It's still here, despite everything."
"We have an agreement about Sofia," I say, but I'm leaning into his touch, my body betraying every word. "About keeping her safe."
"Is that all?" His thumb traces my cheekbone, sending shivers down my spine. "Just an agreement? Nothing more?"
His question demands honesty, even when lies would be safer. "You know it's not," I admit, the words feeling like jumping off a cliff. "But it's complicated—what you want with my father, who we are, everything."
"What matters more?" His hand slides to my waist, heat burning through my clothes. "What's bigger than this? Than us?"
"Your mission to destroy my father," I remind him, even as I step closer, my hands landing on his chest where I can feel his heart racing like mine. "Years of planning don't just disappear."
"They don't," he agrees, surprising me with his honesty. His fingers thread through my hair, tilting my face up. "But priorities change when something—someone—matters more. You. Sofia."
"Sofia," I echo, understanding what he's saying.
"Sofia," he confirms, his lips hovering just above mine. "And you. The woman who gives me something to want beyond revenge."
His words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I've kept guarded for years. Before I can find words, his mouth claims mine—gentle at first, then hungry, shattering every defense I've built. I open for him instantly, his tongue sliding against mine as my body presses closer, feeling him hard against me.
"Bedroom," I gasp when he breaks away, his teeth grazing sensitive skin along my neck, triggering memories of Paris passion. "Now."
No calculation or diplomatic precision—just raw need transcending complicated history or organizational positioning. He lifts me with effortless strength, my legs wrapping around his waist, feeling his arousal pressing hard and insistent against the thin fabric between us. The friction sends jolts of electricity through my core, making me rock against him instinctively.
His mouth reclaims mine as he carries me through the compound, never breaking connection, navigating with spatial awareness that reflects operative training now employed for entirely different purpose. One of his hands slides beneath my thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh with possessive pressure that will leave marks—marks I already crave as evidence of what's happening between us.
The bedroom door closes behind us, and suddenly we're in our own world—a space where Bratva politics and vengeance missions don't exist. Viktor sets me down, his eyes dark with hunger that sends a shiver through me.
"I want to see all of you," he says, his voice rough in a way I've never heard before.
His hands move to my blouse, undoing each button with maddening slowness. Each brush of his knuckles against my skin feels deliberate, designed to drive me crazy. When he pushes the fabric apart to reveal my black lace bra, the way his breath catches makes heat flood through me.
"I've thought about this," he confesses, tracing the edge of lace with one finger. "Since Paris. Since you walked back into my life. I tried to focus on the mission, but you were always there, in my head."
The honesty in his voice pulls truth from me too. "I tried to hate you," I admit, pulling his shirt up and over his head, revealing the map of scars across his skin. My fingers trace the worst one, a jagged line that curves around his ribs. "For leaving. For coming back as his lieutenant. For making everything so damn complicated."
"And now?" His hands pause at my bra clasp, uncertainty flashing in eyes that never show weakness.
"Now I get it," I say, running my palms over the hard planes of his chest, feeling his heart hammering against my touch. "Why you left. Why you came back. It wasn't just strategy or betrayal."
"It doesn't erase what I missed," he says quietly, a rare vulnerability in his voice as he finally unhooks my bra. "Time with you. With her. Moments we can't get back."
"No," I agree, my hands moving to his belt. "But we're here now. That's what matters."
His eyes darken to storm-cloud gray, and then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and fierce as my bra falls away. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, gasping against his mouth. When his lips replace his hands, the wet heat of his tongue circling my nipple sends electricity straight to my core.
I manage to get his belt undone and his zipper down, pushing fabric aside until I can take him in my hand—hot and hard, pulsing against my palm. The sharp intake of his breath when I touch him feels like power, like victory.
"Anastasia," he groans, my name both warning and plea as he strips away the rest of our clothes until there's nothing between us—no secrets, no barriers, just skin against skin.
His eyes travel over me with such intensity I can almost feel it physically. I let myself look too, taking in the body that's both beautiful and deadly—broad shoulders, narrow hips, powerful thighs, and the unmistakable evidence of how much he wants me.
We fall onto the bed together, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that feels like safety rather than confinement. His mouth reclaims mine as his hands explore every inch of me, learning my body all over again. His lips travel down my neck, tasting and teasing until I'm writhing beneath him.
He takes his time with my breasts, lavishing attention on each until I'm clutching at his shoulders, desperate for more. Then he moves lower, trailing kisses down my stomach until he settles between my thighs.
The first touch of his tongue makes my hips lift off the bed, a cry escaping before I can stop it. He grips my thighs, spreading me wider as he tastes me with the same single-minded focus he brings to everything. His tongue finds exactly the right spot, circling and flicking until I'm climbing rapidly toward release.
When his fingers slide inside me, curving to hit the spot that makes me see stars, I lose all control, all pretense of composure. "Viktor," I gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder. "Please—I'm so close."
He doubles his efforts, pushing me higher and higher until pleasure crashes over me in waves, my body arching as I cry out his name. He works me through every aftershock, not stopping until the final tremor subsides.
Before I can catch my breath, he moves up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. His eyes lock with mine, intense and vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.
"Look at me," he says softly, one hand cupping my face. "See me, Anastasia. Not the lieutenant. Not the fiancé your father forced on you. Just me."
"I see you," I whisper, reaching up to trace the scar at his temple, the small imperfection in his jaw where it once broke. "I always have. Even when I didn't want to."
Something shifts in his expression—a wall coming down—as he pushes inside me slowly, filling me completely. When he's fully seated, he stills, our bodies as connected as they can possibly be.
"Perfect," he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. "Like coming home."
We begin to move together, finding a rhythm that feels like we've been doing this forever. Each thrust drives him deeper, hitting places that make pleasure build impossibly fast after my first release. His controlled pace soon isn't enough—I need more, everything.
"Harder," I demand, wrapping my legs higher around his waist to take him deeper. "I'm not fragile."
Something flashes in his eyes—approval, hunger—and his control snaps. His hips drive into me with newfound purpose, each thrust precisely aimed to maximize my pleasure. The new angle has him hitting exactly the right spot, sending me spiraling toward another peak.
"Mine," he growls against my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. "Tell me, Anastasia."
"Yours," I gasp, the admission feeling like truth rather than surrender. My hands slide down his sweat-slicked back to urge him on. "And you're mine. Equal claim."
My words affect him visibly—his rhythm falters for a moment before he drives deeper, one hand sliding between us to circle the bundle of nerves at my center.
"Come for me again," he demands, voice rough with exertion and need. "Let me feel you."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless rhythm of his body sends me over the edge again, pleasure exploding through me as I clench around him. My release triggers his own—he stiffens above me, my name on his lips as he pulses inside me.
For a moment, he's perfectly still, suspended in pleasure before carefully lowering himself to avoid crushing me. He stays inside me, neither of us willing to break the connection yet.
We lie tangled together, his forehead resting against mine as our breathing slows. His lips brush my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—gentle touches that feel more intimate than what we just shared.
My fingers trace the scars on his back, feeling the stories written in his skin. I should be terrified by this vulnerability—both of us naked in every way—but instead, I feel strangely safe. Protected not by security systems or tactical planning but by the man who holds me like I'm something precious.
"What now?" I ask as reality slowly creeps back in, though I make no move to pull away.
"Now I do this right," he says, pulling back to meet my eyes.
He withdraws from me with obvious reluctance, both of us gasping slightly at the loss. Rolling to his side, he props himself on one elbow and takes my hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture that seems almost formal.
"Anastasia Mikhailovna Markova," he says, silver eyes holding mine with an intensity that steals my breath, "will you marry me? Not for the Bratva. Not for show. For us. For Sofia. For whatever we build together outside all this."
The question—so different from our cold engagement—touches something deep inside me, something I've kept walled off for years. For once, I don't analyze or strategize my response.
"Yes," I say simply, reaching up to touch his face, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against my palm. "For us. For Sofia. For something real."
His smile transforms his face completely—the dangerous operative replaced by just a man, happy and hopeful. He pulls me against him, our bodies fitting together perfectly from chest to toe.
As his lips find mine again, gentle at first but quickly rekindling to heat that promises we're far from finished, one thought crystallizes with perfect clarity:
We are family now.
And nothing will ever be the same.