Chapter 42
TERESA
One week later…
The elevator hums around us, mirrors reflecting back two tired but lighter versions of ourselves. We just had our first lunch out since coming home from the hospital—just the two of us at a quiet corner table, a peaceful meal in public.
We discussed the night of the kidnapping, where my head was at, how severely manipulated I was by Trina’s malicious lies.
I explained how convincing she and Jack were, how they so confidently spit their venom, convincing me Vlad was the villain.
I apologized profusely, my eyes filled with regretful tears.
He responded with a simple, “I’ve already forgiven you” as he gently wiped them away.
Vlad stands with one hand in his pocket, the other holding mine.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says.
I arch a brow. “After everything that’s happened, surprises aren’t exactly my favorite thing.”
His mouth twitches in amusement. “This one’s different.”
“Famous last words,” I mutter, squeezing his hand.
The doors slide open to reveal the no longer Zen calm of the penthouse but controlled chaos.
A dozen movers in matching polos are hard at work, cardboard boxes stacked knee-high, the sound of packing tape stretching filling the air.
One man is wrapping a framed photograph of Vlad’s parents while another dismantles a bookshelf with surgical focus.
I blink. “What’s happening?”
“Surprised?”
“That’s one word,” I manage.
He glances at me, a broad smile on his face. “We’re moving.”
I laugh, a thin, bewildered sound. “Moving?”
“As in finding a home that’s ours,” he says simply. His hand finds the small of my back, steady and warm. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere with a yard. Somewhere suitable for a child.”
The movers glide past, efficient as clockwork, turning the penthouse into a landscape of brown cardboard and bubble wrap. I can only stand there, my mind trying to catch up with what I’m seeing.
“You weren’t kidding about the surprise.”
I take a slow lap, pausing at the window, palm to glass, watching the city that made and unmade me in the space of a single holiday season. My reflection looks older, softer, stronger. Braver.
“You okay?” he asks, coming up behind me.
“No,” I admit, then amend. “Yes. Both.” My hand finds his.
He turns me gently, thumb brushing away the dampness at my eye. The bandage over his shoulder peeks out from under his sweater, reminding me he’s human, breakable. “We can take what we want and leave the rest,” he says. “Start fresh.”
The movers roll past with a box labeled: STUDY—FRAGILE. Everything’s being packed up with swift efficiency.
I set my rosemary plant into an open tote, swaddle our framed ultrasound print in tissue, and tuck it beside the plant. When the last lamp is wrapped and the final box sealed, the foreman nods at us.
“We’ll meet you at the new address, Mr. Angeloff.”
“Thank you,” Vlad says, then to me, softer, “Ready?”
I look around once more. “Let’s go home.”
We leave the city, heading east on the highway to Long Island. Vlad drives. I press my forehead to the cold glass and watch the skyline shrink behind us before softening into trees, then opening up into long winter fields. He won’t give me any details, just squeezes my hand and smiles when I ask.
The gates swing open to a drive that curves up through bare oaks toward a hillside villa.
Stucco the color of cream, wide stone steps, iron balconies strung with soft lighting.
It sits close enough to the city that the skyline is a silver line on the horizon, but far enough that the air smells like cedar and nature instead of exhaust.
“Vladimir,” I whisper.
He parks underneath a portico. An invisible staff has already salted the stone. Candles are glowing in the windows, giving the house a pulsating warmth. When he opens my door, my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He offers his hand. “Welcome home, kotenok.”
We climb the steps, boots crunching on snow-covered marble. Inside, the foyer opens into a sweep of gorgeous walnut floors and a wall of glass framing a long blue dusk over the water. A fire crackles in a carved stone fireplace.
“I wanted you to see it bare,” he says. “Before Dmitri installs cameras and a security system, before the movers bring our belongings. Before the real world returns, I wanted it to be just us.”
“Just us,” I echo, turning in the warm light.
Vlad steps closer, a softness in his eyes, and says quietly, “There’s one more surprise.” His hands find mine, warm and steady, his thumbs rubbing my fingers.
“Teresa Winslow,” he says, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
“My life hasn’t been the same since you walked into it, and before I realized it, you became the center of my world.
You’ve loved me when I didn’t deserve it.
You’ve argued with me when I did. You made me believe I could have more than blood and business; you made me believe I could have a future that mattered. And now you’re giving me, us, a child.”
His smile tilts, boyish for just a breath. “I want to be your safe haven. I want to make you tea at three in the morning. I want to read ridiculous baby-name lists with you. I want every morning and every tomorrow with you.”
A laugh hiccups out of me as he produces a small box. Inside is an oval diamond set low in platinum, two tiny emeralds tucked on either side like delicate armor.
“Marry me,” he says simply.
“Yes,” I reply without hesitation. The word spills out true and whole. “Yes.”
He exhales and slides the ring onto my finger. The fit is perfect. For a second we just stare at it together as if we both need proof that the moment is real.
He kisses me, full of promise. When he lifts his head, the look on his face is so genuine and raw, I have to touch his cheek, because having that transparency pointed at me feels like holding a star with my bare hands.
“Now,” he says, mischief curling the edges of his mouth before he scoops me into his arms. “Traditions.”
“You’re not supposed to carry me over a threshold until after a ceremony,” I protest, looping my arms around his neck.
He starts up the stairs, an easy feat despite the shoulder, because of course he’s stronger than gravity when he wants to be. “My house, my thresholds, my traditions,” he murmurs. “And our rules, from now on.”
“Bossy.”
“Happy,” he counters.
The master suite overlooks the view—the river a satin ribbon below, the city visible in the distance beyond. He nudges the door with his foot and it swings open to a room already ours in a way that makes my chest ache. Cream linens. A plush rug begging bare feet.
On the dresser sits a vase of white camellias and a simple frame holding the first black-and-white sonogram I showed him in Central Park. In the corner is a rocking chair, hand-rubbed wood and soft leather, angled to catch the morning light.
“You did all this today?” I ask, my breath catching.
“Physically, the designer did this today,” he says, setting me gently on my feet but not letting go. “In my head, however, this has been a reality for a while.”
He reaches back and turns the lock with a quiet click, the small sound settling over my shoulders like a shawl. Safe. Comforting.
Everything after happens in slow motion. We’re not racing the clock anymore. He unpins my hair, watching it fall with a look that makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I undo the top buttons of his sweater, tracing the edge of his bandage with gentle fingertips.
In the hush of that room, the world narrows to just the two of us.
Vlad's eyes hold mine, dark with intent, as his fingers find the hem of my sweater.
He lifts it slowly, reverently, his callused thumbs brushing the skin of my waist, sending a shiver through me.
I reach for him, my hands trembling a little as I gingerly pull his sweater over his head, revealing the broad expanse of his chest inch by inch.
A scar curves along his collarbone, pale and jagged, in the form of a lightning strike.
Below it are the tattoos I’ve memorized.
Cyrillic script, words and symbols of loyalty and survival inked into his skin.
They aren’t just marks anymore, they’re a map of the man I cherish, the man I love, secrets he let me read long ago.
He's beautiful in his ruggedness, this Russian man who's fought wars I can only imagine, now standing before me with a vulnerability that makes my heart ache.
"No rush, kotenok," he murmurs in his sexy accented voice. "We have all night. Every night."
I trace the lines of his ink with my fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath. His hands slide up my back, unhooking my bra with a practiced ease that makes me smile against his shoulder.
We undress each other in a quiet rhythm. Laughter comes when he tugs at my socks, nearly toppling me onto the bed, but he catches me, pulling me close.
Naked, we stand skin to skin, his heat searing into me, awakening every nerve. He's careful, always, his touch reverent around the gentle swell of my belly where our child grows. His large hands grip my hips, fingers digging in with possessive hunger, guiding me to the bed.
We collapse onto the soft duvet. His hand slides boldly between my thighs, fingers teasing my slick, throbbing core, stroking in a way that makes me gasp and arch against him.
The fire crackles in the hearth, casting golden shadows that dance over his sculpted body, softening the chiseled edge of his jaw.
My eyes lock onto his manhood, thick and hard, the sight of its glistening tip sending a flood of molten desire through me, my body trembling with an insatiable craving to feel him deep inside.
He kisses me, slow and deep before his mouth trails down my neck, nipping gently at my pulse point, drawing a gasp from me.
"Vladimir," I whisper, threading my fingers through his dark hair, holding him there as heat builds low in my core.
He shifts lower, his breath hot against my skin as he explores with lips and tongue. One hand cups my breast, thumb circling the peak while the other traces the curve of my thigh.
He's patient, teasing, rough fingers finding the sensitive spots that make me tremble. When he finally settles between my legs, his eyes meet mine—dark pools of desire and love. He whispers something in Russian, words I don't understand but feel in my bones.
When his mouth descends, the world blurs into a haze of heat and sensation.
He licks and sucks with deliberate slowness, his tongue tracing relentless, teasing circles over my pulsing core, building me up like a symphony swelling to its peak.
His large hands cradle my hips, anchoring me as I writhe beneath him.
He doesn’t stop, his lips and tongue relentless, humming his deep, approving growl against my slick, sensitive flesh. The vibration sends searing tremors rippling through me, curling my toes and arching my back as I grip the sheets.
The first climax crashes through like a tidal wave, my body shuddering, his name spilling from my lips in a breathless cry that echoes in the quiet room.
"Beautiful," he growls, his accent thicker now, laced with need.
He positions himself above me, careful not to press too hard, and enters me slowly, inch by inch, filling me. We move together in perfect synchrony.
He thrusts deep and steady, each roll of his hips hitting just right. His hand slips between us, fingers circling my clit with expert pressure, the second orgasm building fast and coiling tight until it snaps. I cry out, clenching around him, my nails digging into his back.
Vlad slows, kissing my forehead, my cheeks, whispering endearments in Russian. “Moya lyubov,” my love, he says as I come down.
He rolls us so I'm astride him, his hands guiding my hips. From this angle, he can go deeper. I ride him slowly at first, savoring the friction, the way his eyes devour me. He reaches up, pinching my nipples lightly, then harder, the mix of pain and pleasure pushing me higher.
"Faster, Teresa," he urges, and I oblige, grinding down as his thumb finds my center again.
The third climax is the sweetest, building in layers until it shatters me completely, waves of ecstasy pulsing through every nerve. He follows soon after, groaning my name, his release hot and claiming inside me.
We collapse together, tangled and spent, his arms wrapping around me protectively. The only sounds are our ragged breaths syncing into one and the wind against the glass as the snow falls soft and endless.
His hand rests on my belly, feeling the faint flutter within. Then he turns on his good side, elbow bent, head resting in his hand.
“What are you thinking?”
“That I’m going to have to Google how to keep rosemary alive in a bigger kitchen,” I say. He chuckles, humor in his eyes. “And that we’re going to need to get to work designing a nursery.”
“I’d love nothing more.”
I lift my left hand, turning it so the ring throws a small star onto the ceiling, carving a bright dot into the dark. Below my palm, our child shifts.
“Hi,” I whisper. “Welcome home.”
Vlad slides his hand over mine.
We remain like that for a while, breathing in sync in a room full of love and excitement for the future to come.