Chapter 12 #2
By two years old, she could pronounce his name clearly — “Rush-lan” — chasing him through the rose garden on unsteady legs.
He would pretend to be a slow-moving monster.
Dragging his feet dramatically.
Growling playfully.
“Roarrr...”
She would squeal and run faster.
Then tackle him around the knees.
“Hug attack!”
He would drop instantly to his knees and let her win.
Lifting her into the air.
Spinning her while she laughed uncontrollably.
Then pressing kisses against her cheeks.
“My fierce little warrior,” he would murmur.
Now —
At three years old —
She runs toward him every evening as soon as she spots him returning from work.
“Papa Ruslan!”
She screams his name like it’s a celebration.
She launches herself into his arms without hesitation.
And he always catches her.
Every time.
No matter what he’s carrying.
He spins her around gently while she shrieks with delight.
Then he presses kisses to her forehead.
“My brave girl.”
“My light.”
We named her Daphne after long nights of discussion.
Sitting together in bed.
Arguing softly.
Reconsidering.
Laughing at our own sentimentality.
We both agreed the name felt like sunlight on water.
Laurel tree.
Victory.
Resilience.
A symbol of survival.
Everything I wanted her to embody.
Yannis had transformed too.
After years of confusion and emotional distance caused by our separation, he had initially struggled academically.
He had fallen behind.
His grades had dipped.
His confidence had suffered.
But when I returned fully into his life — when stability replaced chaos — something unlocked inside him.
He soared.
He buried himself in books.
In programming.
In physics.
In strategic thinking.
He climbed to the top of his class within a year.
Now he had just completed an accelerated high school program.
He was accepted into university in Athens.
Top tier.
Prestigious.
Ruslan insisted on escorting him personally.
Part fatherly duty.
Part symbolic return to his homeland after years of exile and imprisonment.
And maybe —
Part quiet attempt to rebuild a bond with the boy who had grown up watching his father from a distance.
We were now sitting on a large smooth boulder at the edge of the private waterfront behind the mansion.
The sun had just dipped below the horizon.
The sky was painted in bruised shades of violet and soft rose.
The ocean below us shimmered as gentle waves lapped against the rocks.
Our feet dangled above the water.
The air smelled of salt.
Eucalyptus.
And faint jasmine climbing along the trellis behind us.
Lanterns lining the pathway flickered like small fireflies in the dusk.
A cool breeze lifted strands of my hair.
Without hesitation —
Ruslan reached over and tucked them gently behind my ear.
His fingers lingered against my skin.
Reverent.
Protective.
I turned slightly toward him.
And for a moment —
There were no enemies.
No past betrayals.
No scars.
Just two people who had survived destruction and somehow built something fragile in its place.
“I’ll be back by next Sunday,” he said quietly, his voice carrying over the soft rhythm of the waves below us. “Eight days. Maximum.”
I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder, letting his warmth steady me.
“I know.”
He had already explained it earlier — several times, actually.
Greece was no longer something he could manage from afar.
Athens demanded him.
The compound required his direct oversight.
Four major matters waited for his return:
The restructuring of the eastern shipping routes after a rival family had attempted a quiet takeover.
The renewal of ancient blood-oaths with the old Cretan clans — alliances built on loyalty and history, not contracts.
A full audit of the offshore accounts that funded nearly half his empire, something that required his signature and personal verification.
And finally — the quiet elimination of a traitor who had been feeding selective intelligence to Interpol for years.
That last one wasn’t handled lightly.
It couldn’t be delegated.
It required precision.
And closure.
For eight years he had delayed returning permanently to Greece.
Eight years that were originally meant to last one month.
They stretched because of me.
Because I wasn’t ready to leave California.
Because he refused to leave without me.
His thumb traced slow, unconscious circles along the back of my hand.
“I can’t believe I’ll wake up for seven full days without you beside me,” he murmured. “I’ve gotten too used to your warmth. Too used to hearing Daphne’s small footsteps in the hallway in the mornings.”
My chest tightened.
“It’s only a week,” I reminded him softly. “We survived longer separations.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But then I was losing you.”
His words hung between us.
I lifted my head slightly and turned to look at him.
His eye — the one still intact after everything — searched my face carefully.
“I remember who you were,” I continued. “I remember what you did. The anger. The control. The decisions that hurt me.”
His jaw tightened.
“But I also remember how you fought to change.”
I brushed my fingers gently along the edge of his eyepatch.
“I choose the man in front of me now.”
His breath shifted — subtle relief.
Soft.
Unspoken gratitude.
He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to my wrist where his lips lingered.
“Say that again,” he murmured against my skin.
I smiled.
“I choose you, Ruslan.”
He exhaled quietly.
Then the conversation shifted.
He grew quieter.
Deeper.
“I keep imagining another one,” he admitted suddenly.
The confession surprised me.
“A baby?” I asked softly.
He nodded slowly.
“Maybe a boy. Or another girl.”
His hand slid to my waist.
“I want to see you carry again. To watch your body change. To feel a life kick against my palm while you’re sleeping.”
Heat flickered through me at his words.
“You say that like we haven’t been... busy.”
He smirked. “We have.”
“Repetitively.”
“Which is precisely why I’m slightly concerned,” I admitted, my voice steady.
“Concerned?”
He leaned closer — lips brushing my ear.
“You don’t ever have to be concerned about anything,” he murmured. “Just tell me what you want... and I’ll make it happen.”
His gaze dropped slowly before rising back to mine.
“Shall we start here, Elena?”
His lips brushed lightly against my chest — deliberate, teasing.
A soft giggle slipped from my lips despite myself.
I swatted his chest.
He laughed — deep and genuine — the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine.
It was the laughter of two people who had survived war zones — literal and emotional — and still found each other intact.
He pulled me closer, sliding his hand to the back of my neck.
His lips brushed my collarbone.
Slow.
Intentional.
His kisses moved along my skin, warm and possessive but gentle.
His hand slipped under the hem of my sundress — teasing.
Not rushing.
Just reminding.
“I love that you still respond to me like this,” he murmured against my skin.
I shivered slightly.
“You’re insatiable,” I teased, arching slightly as his fingers traced slow patterns along my waist.
He smirked against my skin.
“Says the woman who climbed on top of me at dawn and whispered ‘again’ directly into my ear.”
I laughed softly, brushing my lips over his jaw.
“You loved it.”
His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
“I love you,” he corrected, his voice lowering into something raw and unfiltered. “And that’s not the same thing.”
His thumb brushed along my cheek.
“I love you more than I ever thought possible.”
They weren’t said to impress.
They were spoken like a confession he had once tried to deny — and now fully accepted.
My chest tightened.
We stayed on the waterfront boulder long after the sky darkened into indigo and the first stars emerged.
Just us.
Despite how much our marriage had grown, despite the intimacy we had built, there were parts of him I still didn’t know.
He had hidden everything about his family.
I knew nothing of his father.
Nothing of his mother.
Nothing of the relatives tied to his bloodline.
It was as if my husband had erased his past completely — like he had chosen to become a man without roots.
Almost like a ghost.
The only trace of his family I had ever heard of was his sister... and she was already gone.
“When I was ten,” he began quietly, “I used to sneak into my uncle’s orchard and steal figs. My cousin would act as lookout while I climbed the tree. If we got caught, my uncle would threaten to make us work the fields all day.”
I smiled.
“Rebel.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Even then.”
His fingers traced slow circles against my thigh.
“I learned to shoot when I was eleven. My uncle put a rifle in my hands and told me, ‘Respect the weapon or it will disrespect you.’ I didn’t understand it at the time — but now I do.”
His gaze drifted toward the horizon.
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“I used to dream about New York,” I admitted quietly.
He glanced at me — listening.
A soft hum left his throat.
“But now...” I continued, my voice gentler, more certain. “Now I just want to be with my family. With you. With Daphne. With Yannis. With the chaos... and the quiet moments like this.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
He kissed my forehead — slow, lingering.
After a while, exhaustion crept over me like a gentle tide.
I yawned, stretching lazily against him.
“I’m tired.”
He immediately shifted.
In one smooth movement, he slid off the boulder and opened his arms.
“Come here.”
I grinned — not bothering to be graceful — and jumped into his embrace.
His hands caught me under my thighs without hesitation.
Strong.
Secure.
Before I fully settled, I twisted playfully and climbed onto his back instead, locking my legs around his waist and wrapping my arms around his neck.
He staggered dramatically.
“Ouch!”
I tightened my hold.
“Careful. You’re fragile.”
He laughed.
“Fragile? I survived prison and assassination attempts — and you think piggybacking you is what breaks me?”
His hands hooked securely under my knees to keep me steady.
“You’re trying to test my strength before I leave.”
“Maybe,” I whispered near his ear.
I pressed my lips to the side of his neck.
“Just making sure you remember what — and who — you’re coming home to.”
He exhaled sharply at the contact.
His laugh vibrated through his shoulders and into my chest.
“As if I could ever forget.”
He began walking toward the mansion, carrying me effortlessly through the moonlit garden.
His stride was steady.
Controlled.
Even with the faint limp that surfaced when he was tired, he refused to let it show weakness.
Every few steps he intentionally shifted his weight and jostled me slightly — making me squeal and tighten my grip.
“Ruslan!” I protested between laughter.
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You climbed on me.”
“Consent was implied.” I bit lightly at his shoulder.
He responded by adjusting his hold — pulling me higher against his back so I was completely supported.
My body still felt deliciously sore.
Earlier — when we had been wrapped in sheets and urgency — he had taken me with an intensity that bordered on worship.
Relentless.
Unapologetic.
Like he was trying to remind himself that I was real.
That I chose him.
Even now, pressed against his back, I could feel the lingering ache — a reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed me.
And yet...
I wanted more.
I always wanted more of him.
We passed through the illuminated garden paths.
Lanterns flickered gently.
The fountain reflected the moonlight like broken glass turned into beauty.
The mansion — once a symbol of power and control — no longer felt like a prison.
It felt like safety.
It felt like home.
He shifted his head slightly.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “About how far we’ve come.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Then quietly —
“Yeah.”
His voice dropped. “Sometimes I wake up and expect everything to disappear. Like it’s temporary. Like one mistake will erase all of this.”
I tightened my arms around his neck. “It’s not temporary.”
His hand squeezed my thigh gently.
“Promise?”
I kissed his jaw. “Promise.”
He stopped walking for a moment and tilted his head back slightly — enough to brush his lips against my arm.
“I built an empire thinking that was enough.”
He resumed walking. “Turns out — this is what mattered.”
My throat tightened.
For the first time in years, standing under open sky with the man who once destroyed and rebuilt me...
I let myself believe we weren’t surviving anymore.
We were living.
And maybe —
Just maybe —
We deserved it.