Epilogue - Keira #2
I thought about Rodion. About the way he looked at me in the morning, soft with sleep and unguarded in a way he never was with anyone else.
About the way he touched my belly every night before we fell asleep, talking to the baby in Russian, telling her stories I couldn't understand but loved anyway.
I thought about the life we'd built together. The dinners we cooked, the conversations we had, the silences that felt comfortable instead of empty. The way he'd held me after nightmares, the way I'd held him when the weight of his world became too heavy.
I thought about the fear, too. The knowledge that danger was always circling, that peace was temporary, that everything could shatter at any moment. That hadn't gone away. Probably never would.
But beneath the fear, something else had taken root. Something that looked a lot like hope.
"Yes," I said. "I'm happy."
"Really?"
"Really. It's not the life I planned. It's not the life I ever imagined wanting. But it's mine. And I'm happy in it."
Amber studied me for another long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I don't understand all of it. I'm not sure I want to understand all of it. But I can see that you mean it. That this is real for you." She squeezed my hand. "I just want you to know that I'm here. Whatever happens, whatever you need—I'm here."
I felt tears prick at my eyes. Pregnancy hormones, probably. Or maybe just the relief of being seen by someone who'd known me before all of this.
"Thank you," I said.
"Don't thank me. Just promise me you'll call if you need help. Real help, not vague texts about 'complications.'"
"I promise."
She pulled me into another awkward hug, and this time I didn't care about the logistics. I just held on and let myself be held.
***
Rodion appeared an hour later, right on cue.
He was charming, as promised. Attentive, warm, solicitous in a way that felt genuine rather than performed.
He asked about Amber's daughter Lily, about her work, about the train ride in from Connecticut.
He made her laugh with a story about his first attempt at American small talk, which had apparently involved accidentally insulting a senator's wife at a charity gala.
By the time she left, Amber was halfway to convinced.
"He's not what I expected," she admitted as I walked her to the elevator.
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Someone colder. More obviously dangerous." She glanced back toward the living room, where Rodion had retreated to give us privacy. "He looks at you like you hung the moon."
"He's good at looking."
"No, this was real. Trust me—I've been married for twelve years. I know the difference between performance and genuine adoration." She smiled, a little reluctantly. "I still have questions. A lot of questions. But I believe you're happy. And that's enough for now."
"Thank you, Amber."
"Call me. Regularly. And send pictures when the baby comes."
"I will."
The elevator doors opened, and she stepped inside. At the last moment, she turned back.
"Keira?"
"Yes?"
"I'm proud of you. For letting yourself have this. I know how hard that must have been."
The doors closed before I could respond, and I stood there in the hallway, my hand on my belly, her words echoing in my head.
Letting myself have this.
That was what it came down to, wasn't it? Not the violence or the danger or the impossible circumstances. The hardest part had been letting go. Letting someone in. Letting myself want something I'd spent years convinced I didn't deserve.
***
That evening, Rodion found me by the window, watching the sun set over the city.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Good. Tired. Happy she came."
"She's a good friend."
"She is." I leaned back into him, letting his warmth seep into me. "She said you look at me like I hung the moon."
"Do I?"
"Apparently."
"Well." He pressed a kiss to my neck. "You did hang the moon. My moon, anyway."
"That's cheesy."
"It's accurate."
We stood there in silence, watching the light change, the city transforming from gold to purple to black. The baby kicked again, and Rodion's hand moved to feel it, his palm warm against my skin.
"Kirill called while you were with Amber," he said quietly. "There's movement in Serbia. Milos is making inquiries, reaching out to old allies."
"What does that mean?"
"It means he's planning something. We don't know what yet, but Kirill's watching. When the time comes, we'll be ready."
I nodded slowly. The threat was still there, still looming. It might always be there, in one form or another. That was the reality of this life.
But standing here, with Rodion's arms around me and our daughter growing between us, I found I wasn't afraid. Not the way I used to be. Fear was still there—it would always be there—but it didn't control me anymore.
"Whatever comes," I said, "we face it together."
"Together," he agreed.
I turned in his arms and looked up at him—this man who had become my husband, my lover, my partner in everything. This man I'd chosen, and who had chosen me.
"I love you," I said.
"I love you too."
He kissed me, soft and slow, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the life we'd built against all odds.
It wasn't a fairy tale. There was no happily ever after, no guarantee that tomorrow would be safe. The world we lived in was dangerous and uncertain, full of enemies and threats and hard choices.
But it was ours. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
***
Later that night, I lay awake watching him sleep.
It was something I'd started doing in the early weeks, when I was still learning to trust the safety of sharing a bed with someone. Back then, I'd watched him because I was afraid—afraid of what he might do, afraid of what I'd gotten myself into, afraid that the peace was temporary.
Now I watched him for different reasons.
He slept these days deeply. Peacefully. His face relaxed, his breathing even, none of the restless tension I remembered from our earliest nights together.
The insomnia that had brought him to my office—the sleeplessness that had plagued him for years—had faded over the months, replaced by something that looked almost like peace.
I remembered what he'd told me once, back when we were still learning each other: that he'd lain awake for years, his mind churning through mistakes and regrets and fears he couldn't escape. That sleep had been a battle he lost more often than he won.
"You fixed me," he'd said one morning, half-asleep, his words slurred with exhaustion. "I don't know how, but you fixed me."
I hadn't fixed him. That wasn't how healing worked—I knew that better than anyone. But I'd given him something he'd been missing. A reason to let go. A place to rest.
The same thing he'd given me.
I thought about the woman I'd been when he walked into my office. Guarded. Controlled. So afraid of being hurt that I'd stopped letting myself feel anything at all. I'd built a life designed to minimize risk, and in doing so, I'd minimized everything else too.
Now I felt everything. The fear and the joy and the love and the uncertainty—all of it, tangled together, impossible to separate. It was messy and complicated and nothing like the careful existence I'd constructed.
It was also the most alive I'd ever been.
Rodion stirred in his sleep, his hand finding mine even in the darkness. His fingers curled around my palm, holding on without waking. A reflex. A habit. A testament to the months we'd spent learning to reach for each other.
"I love you," I whispered, too soft to wake him.
His hand tightened on mine anyway.
The baby kicked one final time, then settled. Outside, the city hummed with its endless energy—a million lives unfolding, a thousand stories being written, the great machine of humanity churning on whether we participated or not.
But in here, in this bed, there was only us. Only this. Only the quiet miracle of two broken people who'd somehow found a way to make each other whole.
I closed my eyes and let sleep take me, my hand still wrapped in his, our daughter safe between us.
Whatever tomorrow brought, we would face it together.
*****
THE END