Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
ANYA
I wake up first, face mashed against Roman’s chest, one leg hooked over his hip like I tried to climb inside him while I slept.
Sunlight sneaks through the hotel curtains in thin gold lines, hitting the sheets and catching on something sparkly on my left hand.
I blink slow, brain still foggy, then lift my fingers to look closer.
There are two rings. A set. The engagement one is a black diamond, not huge but sharp and deep, cut like a rough hexagon so it looks almost dangerous, set in a thin platinum band with tiny black diamonds scattered along the sides like stars in a night sky.
The wedding band underneath is matching platinum, slim and smooth except for one thin line of black diamonds running through the center.
Both fit perfectly, no slipping, no pinching, like they were sized for me in my sleep.
I stare at them, heart doing a weird flip. They’re beautiful but not soft-beautiful. They’re fierce. Edgy. Exactly how I like things. Nothing frilly or traditional. Just dark, shiny, and unapologetic.
Roman’s hand slides over mine, fingers curling around so he can see what I’m looking at. His voice is still thick with sleep, rough against my ear. “Bought them a while ago.”
I turn my head just enough to meet his eyes. “When?”
“Few weeks after you moved in for good.” He shifts so we’re face to face, noses almost touching.
“Saw the black diamond in a shop window in Jackson. Thought it looked like you. Strong. Didn’t take shit from anybody.
Knew I wanted to put it on your finger someday.
Kept them in the safe at the clubhouse until we got through the worst of it. ”
My throat gets tight. “You never said anything.”
“Didn’t want to scare you off.” He brushes his thumb over the black diamond. “Figured when the time was right, you’d know.”
I lift my hand, watch the light catch the stones again. “They’re perfect.”
“Yeah?” His mouth curves, small and soft. “Good. Because they’re not coming off.”
I lean in and kiss him slow. His hand slides into my hair, holds me there while the kiss turns deeper, hungrier. I roll on top of him, straddling his hips, feeling him already hard under the sheet. “Morning wood?” I murmur against his lips.
“Morning wife,” he corrects, hands gripping my ass, pulling me down so I grind against him. “Been hard since I felt you move against me.”
I reach between us, wrap my fingers around him, stroke slow from base to tip. He groans low in his throat, hips lifting into my hand.
“Want you inside me,” I say, voice breathy.
He flips us fast, pins me under him, knees spreading my thighs. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He notches at my entrance, rubs the head through my wetness, teasing until I whine and arch up. Then he pushes in slow, inch by inch, stretching me until he’s buried deep. We both groan when he bottoms out.
“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, forehead pressed to mine. “So tight. So wet for me.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, heels digging into his ass. “Move.”
He does. Slow at first, long drags out then hard snaps back in. Skin slaps skin. Bed creaks under us. My nails rake down his back, leaving red lines he’ll feel later. He hisses, thrusts deeper, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl.
“Like that?” he asks, voice wrecked.
“Yes. Harder.”
He gives it to me, pounding now, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding between us to rub circles over my clit. I’m climbing fast, thighs shaking, breath coming in short gasps.
“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you squeeze my cock.”
I shatter, walls pulsing hard around him, crying his name loud enough the walls probably hear it. He slams deep one more time, groans long and rough into my neck, cock jerking as he spills inside me, hips grinding through every spurt until he’s shaking and empty.
We stay locked together, sweaty, panting. He kisses my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“Love you,” he whispers.
“Love you more,” I whisper back.
He rolls us so I’m draped over his chest again, still inside me, softening slow. His hand finds my stomach, rests there like before.
“Think we made a baby yet?” he asks, voice soft.
I smile against his skin. “Maybe.”
“Yeah.” His fingers trace lazy circles. “Maybe.”
He leans down and kisses me slow, lazy, like we have all the time in the world now. His hand slides up my side, thumb brushing the underside of my breast. I arch into him, but he pulls back with a low chuckle. “We’ve got breakfast with your dad in an hour. Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
I groan and tug him back down anyway. “Five minutes.”
“Five minutes turns into thirty with you.” He kisses the tip of my nose, then rolls out of bed, completely naked and not shy about it. “Shower. Together. But behave.”
We don’t behave. The water’s hot, steam filling the small bathroom fast. He soaps my back carefully, fingers gentle over the fading cuts from the glass table.
I turn in his arms, press my forehead to his chest, and feel him get hard against my stomach.
He groans, drops his head to my shoulder. “You’re killing me.”
“Good,” I murmur, sliding my hand down to wrap around him. He lets me stroke him slow and tight until his hips jerk and he comes with my name on his lips, forehead pressed to mine, water pounding over us.
After we’re dressed, me in jeans and one of his hoodies that still smells like him, him in black tee and leather jacket, we head downstairs. Dmitri’s waiting in the lobby with two coffees. He hands me one, eyes flicking over both of us like he knows exactly what took us so long.
“Father’s expecting you,” he says. “Just the two of you. The rest of us stay here until we know the next move.”
Roman takes my free hand, threads our fingers. “Let’s go meet the family.”
The drive to the estate is quiet. I keep my head on his shoulder, watching the trees blur past the window.
Every few minutes he squeezes my hand or kisses my temple.
When we pull through the big iron gates, my stomach flips.
Father’s already standing on the wide front steps, arms crossed, face unreadable.
I step out first. He walks down to meet me, pulls me into a hug that smells like cigar smoke and old cologne and home. His arms are tight, almost too tight.
“Anastasiya,” he says against my hair. “You scared ten years off my life.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, holding on just as hard. “I’m okay. I’m here.”
He lets go, looks me over like he’s checking for new damage, then turns to Roman. For a long second they just stare at each other. Then Father extends his hand.
“Roman Kovacs. You brought my daughter home alive. That earns you respect.”
Roman shakes it firm. “I’d walk through hell to keep her safe. She’s my wife now.”
Father nods once, slow. “Then you’re family. Come inside. Breakfast is waiting.”
The dining room feels smaller than I remember. The long table is set for four, white linen, fresh flowers, silver that catches the light. Dmitri and Mikhail are already there. Mikhail’s bouncing his knee under the table. Dmitri’s spinning a coffee cup in his hands.
We sit. Father at the head. Me and Roman across from him. The staff brings plates, blini stacked high with sour cream and caviar, fresh berries, thick slices of dark bread, strong black coffee.
For a minute nobody talks. Just forks scraping plates. Then Father sets his cup down.
“You married my daughter in a church with a dead man bleeding at your feet,” he says to Roman. “That takes courage.”
Roman meets his eyes straight on. “She’s worth every risk.”
Father looks at me. “You chose him.”
“I did,” I say. “And I’d choose him a hundred times over.”
Mikhail leans forward, grinning. “Welcome to the family, brother. Try not to get shot next time.”
Dmitri raises his coffee cup. “To my new brother. You keep her safe or I’ll kill you myself.”
Roman chuckles low. “Fair.”
Father watches the exchange, then nods. “Good. You’re one of us now, Roman. My son.”
I feel my eyes sting. Roman’s hand finds my knee under the table, gives it a gentle squeeze.
After breakfast Father stands. “Come. Let’s pack what you want to take home today. The rest I’ll have shipped.”
We follow him upstairs to my old room. It looks exactly like I left it, bookshelves overflowing, desk covered in half-finished sketches, closet door cracked open.
Roman sets the duffel on the bed and starts helping without being asked.
He folds my favorite sweaters, stacks books carefully, tucks the little wooden horse Dmitri carved for me when I was six into a side pocket.
I pull open the closet, run my fingers over the dresses I used to wear to galas. “I don’t need most of this.”
“Take what makes you happy,” Father says from the doorway. “The rest goes in storage until you decide.”
I grab a few hoodies, the soft cashmere scarf Mama gave me before she got sick, the photo of us when I was little. Roman zips the duffel when it’s full.
Father watches us, then clears his throat. “So. When do I get grandchildren?”
I freeze mid-reach for a book. Roman’s hand stills on the zipper.
Father shrugs, completely casual. “I’m not getting any younger. I want to spoil them before my knees give out.”
Roman clears his throat, a tiny smile tugging his mouth. “We’re… working on it.”
I feel heat crawl up my neck. We might already be there. We’ve never used protection once. But neither of us says that part out loud.
Father laughs, low and warm. “Good. No pressure. But don’t wait forever.”
We don’t answer. We just share a quick look, that secret possibility sitting soft between us.
Father claps Roman on the shoulder. “The jet’s fueled. We’ll stop at your compound first. You’ve got people waiting.”
Roman nods. “Yeah. Need to let the club see she’s safe.”
Father looks at me. “This is his life now. Your life too. You understand that?”
“I do,” I say. “And I want it. All of it.”
He nods, satisfied. “Then let’s go home.”
The jet ride is peaceful. I fall asleep against Roman’s shoulder somewhere over the Atlantic, his fingers stroking my hair.
When we land in Jackson the air feels warmer, familiar.
The drive to the Iron Reapers compound is short.
When we pull through the gate the whole place is lit up like Christmas, string lights strung across the yard, smoke curling from grills, music thumping low from speakers someone dragged outside.
People spill out the second they see the SUV. Jenny’s the first one to reach me, arms open, tears already falling. “Oh my God, you’re here. You’re really here.”
She crushes me in a hug so tight I laugh and cry at the same time. Carlie’s right behind her, then Maria, then all the other old ladies, talking over each other.
Tank lifts me clean off the ground, spins me once. “Little sister’s back! And married! In a fucking shootout!”
Lucky’s grinning like an idiot. “We threw you a party. Figured you deserved one after all that bullshit.”
Roman keeps his arm around my waist the whole time, like he still can’t believe I’m really here. I look up at him, eyes wet. “They did all this for us?”
He kisses my temple. “They love you, baby. Almost as much as I do.”
Someone cranks the music louder. Someone else presses cold beers into our hands.
The prospects fire up the grills again. Kids run around chasing each other.
Mikhail’s already arm-wrestling Tank at the picnic table, losing but laughing.
Viktor and Dmitri stand a little apart, watching with quiet approval.
Jenny pulls me toward the long table loaded with food. “We made all your favorites. Chili, cornbread, that weird potato salad Carlie swears by. Sit. Eat. Tell us everything.”
I sit. Roman drops down beside me, arm draped over the back of my chair. People keep coming up, hugging me, clapping Roman on the back, yelling congratulations.
Carlie leans across the table, eyes shining. “So. Married in a church with a dead guy at the altar. Iconic.”
I laugh, real and loud for the first time in days. “It was a little dramatic.”
Lucky raises his beer. “To the bride and groom! May your marriage be as wild as the wedding!”
Everyone cheers. Glasses clink. Music swells.
I lean into Roman’s side, watch my two families mix together under the string lights.
Viktor talking quietly with Mason. Dmitri showing Blade a knife trick.
Mikhail teaching a prospect how to curse in Russian.
Jenny and Carlie dragging me up to dance when a slow song comes on.
Roman pulls me close, sways with me in the middle of the yard, forehead pressed to mine.
“You happy?” he asks, voice low.
“So happy,” I whisper.
He kisses me slow and deep right there in the middle of the yard, hands cradling my face like I’m the only thing that exists, and cheers explode around us, whoops and whistles and beer bottles clinking, but I barely hear them because it’s just his mouth on mine, tasting like home and relief and forever.
This is it, my husband with his arms locked around me, my club roaring their love for us both, my family blending into the chaos like they’ve always belonged here.
Both worlds finally crash together in one loud, messy, perfect place, no more running, no more hiding, no more cages or threats or looking over my shoulder.
Just us, standing in the glow of string lights and grill smoke, the rest of our lives stretching out ahead full of chili nights that Jenny will force me to perfect, club runs where I ride behind him with my arms tight around his waist, and maybe, just maybe, a little one on the way already growing quiet and secret inside me.
We don’t say that part out loud yet, don’t need to whisper it into the night or make promises we haven’t tested.
We’ve got time. All the time in the world.
And for once, it doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like a gift.