20. Aurora
20
AURORA
I collapse onto the nearest seat the moment we return home, my body feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. The makeup is gone, but I swear I can still feel my mother's face clinging to mine like a ghost unwilling to leave.
Playing her today—seeing myself transformed into her—broke something open inside me that I've kept sealed for seven years.
"Hungry?" Ruslan asks, his voice impossibly gentle as he kneels in front of me.
I shake my head, then nod, then shrug. "I don't know what I am right now."
"Food helps." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "Trust me."
Before I can protest, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. His strength feels like the only thing keeping me upright as he leads me down to the kitchen.
"Sit," he says, pointing to one of the chairs. "I'm going to make you my mother's stroganoff."
"I don't think I can eat anything rich right now,"
"It will settle your stomach," he says, already pulling ingredients from the industrial fridge nearby. "It was the only thing Lev could keep down after his first kill."
I watch as he moves around the kitchen with surprising confidence. For a man who commands armies of brutal killers, there's something disarmingly tender about the way he slices mushrooms with careful precision.
"My mother taught us both how to cook," he explains, noticing my stare. "She believed every man should know how to feed himself. And others."
The rhythmic sound of his knife against the cutting board becomes hypnotic. There's something intimate about watching him cook for me—more intimate, somehow, than the ways our bodies have joined.
"She always said to sauté the meat first," he continues. "But I find searing it preserves the flavor better."
The sizzle of beef hitting the hot pan fills the kitchen with a rich aroma that makes my stomach clench with unexpected hunger.
"When Lev and I were boys, we would fight over who got to stir." A smile crosses his face as he starts stirring. "She'd let us take turns, but Lev always tried to cheat."
I watch him as he cooks, entranced by the dance of his hands and the way the muscles in his forearm ripple with every motion.
"This is nice," I murmur, resting my chin on my palm. "Almost normal."
Ruslan looks up, golden eyes catching mine across the kitchen island. "Normal?"
"Yeah." I gesture vaguely between us. "You cooking, me watching. It feels... delightfully ordinary. Like we're just a regular couple having dinner after a long day."
It feels like an extraordinary luxury. More precious than the designer clothes hanging in my closet or the priceless art decorating these walls.
"Not a bratva pakhan and his wife plotting against a psychotic stalker and murderous rival crime families?" Ruslan's mouth quirks into that half-smile that still makes my heart skip.
"Exactly." I laugh softly. "For a minute, I can pretend we're just Ruslan and Aurora."
He tastes the sauce, then adds a pinch of something. "What would normal Ruslan and Aurora be doing right now, I wonder?"
"Arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes? Complaining about our annoying coworkers?" I sigh wistfully. "Planning a baby registry without worrying which items can double as weapons?"
His laugh fills the kitchen, deep and rich and real. I want to bottle the sound and keep it forever.
"I like that version of us too, zarechka ." He turns the fire down to a simmer, and then crosses to where I sit to rest his hand on my shoulders, thumbs gently massaging the tension at the base of my neck. "Sometimes I forget there could be moments like this."
"Moments without blood and fear?"
"Moments where I'm just a man cooking for the woman he loves." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "It's not what I was raised to value, but it's everything that's important."
I reach up and take his hand, squeezing it between both of mine before planting a soft kiss on it.
The savory aroma of the stroganoff fills the air, and wraps around me like a warm blanket. I take a deep breath, letting the rich scent settle deep into my lungs.
It feels nice.
Ruslan's hand pulls away as he makes his way back to the stove, and I miss his presence now more than ever. But as I continue to watch him, I feel my guard slowly coming down.
And along with it comes a renewed courage to reflect on the source of my exhaustion.
"Playing my mother today..." I begin, my voice catching. "It made everything real again. Not that it was ever not real, but?—"
"You had to put it away to survive." Ruslan finishes my thought, stirring the stroganoff. "I understand that."
I nod, watching his broad shoulders move as he works. "Our children will only know one grandmother. I wish they could have known all of them."
"Yours maybe." Ruslan's hands pause momentarily. "My father wouldn't have been much of a grandfather even if he lived. He would have seen them as tools for the bratva, not children to be cherished."
"But your mother?—"
"Yes, Liliya will dote on them," he says, his expression softening. "She may be stern with adults, but she melts around children. It's the only time I've seen her truly smile. It's why my nieces love her so much."
I imagine our twins crawling on Liliya's lap, her rigid exterior crumbling for them. The thought brings an unexpected warmth to my chest.
Standing up from my chair, I walk around the counter until I wrap my arm around Ruslan's wide body from behind. He lets out an appreciative breath, and I bury my face against the hard muscles of his back and plant a gentle kiss on his shoulder blade.
"What kind of world are we bringing them into, Ruslan?" I ask softly. "I want them to feel safe, to never know what it's like to look over their shoulders constantly."
He turns from the stove, his golden eyes serious. "They won't live as we did. I promise you this, zarechka . They will know safety, not fear. Love, not control."
I reach over and touch the scar on Ruslan's wrist, tracing the raised white line with my fingertip.
"Sometimes I wonder if we're fooling ourselves," I whisper. "Thinking we can build something normal amidst all this."
He abandons the stroganoff for a moment to catch my hand, bringing it to his lips. "What's normal anyway? People spending lives they hate to chase things they don't need?"
"Normal is boring and predictable. Normal is safe. Normal isn't wondering if your husband will come home with bullet holes in him." My voice hitches. "Normal isn't worrying that your stalker will find where your children sleep."
Ruslan turns around completely now and pulls me into his arms. I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
"I grew up with a father who meticulously planned every murder like a golfer checking the weather," he says quietly. "That was my normal. Your normal was being Jamie Fields until it wasn't. And it took me meeting you to realize something else."
"What's that?"
His hands move to cup my face. "We make our own normal, zarechka ."
"But how do we protect them from the truth? The bratva isn't something you can hide in a drawer."
"We don't hide it. We teach them to navigate it." His thumb traces the fading bruise on my cheek. "My father taught Lev and me with terror and pain. I will teach our children with honesty and choice."
"And if they choose differently than you want?"
"Then they choose. Simple as that. The ability to choose was something that so many of us in this life never had."
I think of Mikayla's tearful face, her fierce protection of her sisters despite everything. I think about the other pakhan's wives. Ruslan is right. None of them were ever given a choice.
But our children will have that. I'm sure of it.
"Are you scared to be a parent?" I finally ask.
It's a question that I've wondered for myself. With each passing day, I can't help but feel anxiety at just how little I know and how much there is still left to learn.
Even as I can't wait to meet my children.
It's maddening.
He's silent for a long moment. Finally, he exhales slowly.
"I'm scared that they'll grow up to fear me. That they'll see me only as the pakhan, not their father." His voice drops so low I have to strain to hear him. "Because if they do, then I'll become what I despise the most in the world."
"You won't," I say fiercely. "You're not your father or Lev."
"How can you be so sure?"
I rise to my tiptoes, pressing my lips to his. "Because you care enough to fear it."
"Do you feel the same way?" Ruslan asks. "Scared, I mean."
I stare down at the simmering stroganoff. The rich aroma surrounds us, but my mind drifts to a kitchen from long ago. In my mind, I'm watching Mom stand over the stove as I sit at our worn kitchen table, complaining about homework.
I nod.
"I'm terrified I won't live up to my mom's memory," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "She was incredible, Ruslan. Patient and kind, even when I was being unbearable."
My throat tightens, and I blink back tears.
"But what scares me most is the first time I fight with our daughter. That first real argument when she slams a door or says something that'll break my heart." I press a hand to my belly. "Because it'll just remind me of my last fights with my mom. The stupid teenage arguments I had with her before…"
Before Kristofer took her from me.
Ruslan's hand joins mine. Warmth pours into me at the gesture and sends my heartbeat skipping.
"All new parents carry the ghosts of their own childhoods," he murmurs, his lips brushing my hair. "We're both haunted by the mistakes our parents made. But I'm sure we'll also do our best to break those cycles."
His fingers thread into mine and he presses his lips against my forehead in a gentle kiss.
I lift my face to his. "But what if we mess up in ways we can't even imagine?"
A smile softens his face.
"Oh, we absolutely will," he says with surprising lightness. "I'm sure we'll find entirely new mistakes to make that our parents never even considered."
I can't help but laugh at that. "That's comforting to you?"
"It is." He caresses my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "Because whatever mistakes we make, we'll make them together. And we'll fix them together."
The stroganoff begins to bubble more intensely, and Ruslan turns back to stir it.
"I'm ready to make all those new mistakes with you, Aurora," he says, lifting the wooden spoon to taste. "Every single one."
* * *
Silence settles for a moment.
"That stroganoff smells incredible."
My stomach growls in agreement, loudly enough that Ruslan chuckles as he turns back to the stove.
"See? Your body knows what it needs even when your mind is elsewhere." He ladles the rich, creamy mixture over a bed of egg noodles, sending steam rising up in fragrant curls.
I inhale deeply, letting the aroma of the food and the warmth of Ruslan's presence chase away the ghosts of today's filming.
Ruslan lifts his spoon, a mischievous glint in his golden eyes. "Open," he commands softly.
I part my lips without hesitation, feeling a flutter in my stomach that has nothing to do with pregnancy. He slides the spoon between my lips, and I close my eyes as the rich flavor coats my tongue.
This simple act of being fed by him feels more intimate than I expected. And when he pulls away, I catch his wrist, pressing a kiss to the inside of it where his pulse beats steady and strong.
My body feels heavy with emotion as I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder. His arm comes around me automatically, pulling me closer, his warmth seeping through my clothes.
"Thank you," I whisper against the fabric of his shirt. "For being here today to help me as I faced my past."
His hand strokes my hair gently. "I swore a vow to you, zarechka . To cherish and hold you no matter what comes. Those weren't just words for a ceremony. I almost failed you once, but I won't fail you again. I promise."
I lift my head to look at him, studying the lines of his face, the strength in his jaw, the fullness of his lips, and the depth in his eyes that seems to hold universes.
"I don't think I could have done it without you there," I admit. "Seeing that set, stepping into it..." My voice catches. "It was like walking through a door into a past that I wanted to forget forever."
Ruslan's thumb wipes away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "And I'll be there with you again and again. For the rest of our lives, Aurora."
The way he says my name fills me with a sense of belonging I've craved for seven years.
"I love you," I whisper, the words falling from my lips as easily as breathing.
"I love you, too, zarechka . More than I ever thought possible."
He leans in, capturing my lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens as I part my lips for him. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of stroganoff and promises kept. I melt into him, my fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as our kiss becomes a conversation without words.
The kiss deepens, and I press myself into Ruslan's chest, feeling the hard muscles of his body against mine. His hands slide down to grip my hips, fingers exerting a delicious pressure that makes me gasp against his mouth.
There's a hunger between us that feels desperate, like we're trying to consume each other, to erase the darkness of the day with the heat of our bodies.
I push myself closer, wrapping my arms around his neck as his tongue slides against mine. Stroganoff clings to his lips, tasting like home and safety and desire all at once. My body responds instantly, a familiar warmth gathering low in my belly despite everything we've been through today.
Before I can react, his strong hands lift me effortlessly and deposit me on the cool marble of the kitchen counter.
I feel a thrill at his casual display of strength. At how easily he maneuvers me exactly where he wants me.
"What happened to dinner?" I ask coquettishly.
"Dinner can wait. Right now," he murmurs, stepping between my legs and pulling me to the edge of the counter, "I'm hungry for something else."
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer until I can feel him hard against me through our clothes. His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is different. It's slower, deeper, and more deliberate. One hand cradles the back of my neck while the other slides beneath my shirt, his large palm warm against my skin.
I moan softly as his hand travels upward, cupping my breast through my bra. My nipples have been sensitive since the pregnancy began, and even this gentle touch sends electricity through my body.
I press into him, wanting more, needing him with an intensity that pushes all other thoughts away.
Ruslan's hands glide along my skin, methodical and reverent, sending shivers across my body despite the kitchen's warmth. He finds the hem of my shirt and pulls it upward with deliberate slowness. I raise my arms, surrendering to his touch as the fabric slides over my head.
" Krasivaya ," he whispers, his golden eyes drinking me in.
His tattooed fingers trace the fading bruises on my skin, each touch gentle as if handling something precious. It's a stark contrast to Kristofer's brutal grip, and I feel myself melting under Ruslan's careful ministrations.
"You'll be okay, zarechka ," he murmurs, pressing his lips to my collarbone.
I believe him. For the first time in seven years, I truly believe that.
His fingers find the clasp of my bra, and with practiced ease, he releases it. The straps slide down my arms, and I shiver as the air kisses my sensitive skin. Ruslan's eyes darken as he looks at me, his gaze like a physical caress.
"I want to memorize every inch of you," he says, his voice thick with desire.
He takes his time with the button of my jeans, slowly sliding the zipper down. I lift my hips to help him as he tugs the denim down my thighs, his fingers trailing fire in their wake.
In his arms, I'm not the girl running from her past. I'm not the girl who stole someone else's life.
I'm just his.
His woman. His partner. His wife.
The mother of the children we're making together.
"The things you do to me," he growls, voice heavy with desire.
I sit before him in nothing but my panties, completely exposed yet feeling more protected than I've ever been. The power dynamic between us—him fully clothed while I'm nearly naked—should make me feel vulnerable.
Instead, it makes me feel cherished.
Ruslan's strong arms encircle me, tattoos flowing over muscle as he draws me against his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft against my bare skin, and I press closer, seeking his warmth. His heartbeat thumps steady and strong against my cheek—a rhythm I've come to associate with security, with home.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers against my hair.
I gasp as Ruslan's lips trail away from my mouth, following the curve of my jaw. His stubble scratches gently against my skin—a delicious contrast to the soft warmth of his mouth. My fingers tangle in his curly golden-brown hair, holding him close as his kisses trace a path down my neck.
"Ruslan," I breathe, my head falling back as he finds the sensitive spot where my pulse throbs wildly beneath my skin.
He lingers there, his tongue tracing small circles that make me shiver. Each touch feels like he's learning me, memorizing the geography of my body. When he gently sucks the skin between his teeth, pleasure sparks through me like electricity.
"You taste like sunshine," he murmurs against my collarbone, his voice vibrating against my skin.
His hands hold my waist firmly, thumbs tracing the undersides of my breasts as his mouth continues its downward journey. The marble counter is cold beneath my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his palms as they slide up to cup my breasts.
I arch into his touch, craving more as his thumbs brush over my nipples. They've become so sensitive since the pregnancy began, and his gentle touch sends shockwaves of pleasure straight to my core.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
His golden eyes meet mine before he lowers his head and takes one nipple into his mouth. The wet heat is overwhelming, and I cry out, my fingers tightening in his hair. His tongue swirls around the sensitive bud, sending delicious pleasure radiating out.
My thighs tighten around his waist as he moves to my other breast, giving it the same exquisite attention. Each pull of his mouth winds the tension inside me tighter, making me rock against him instinctively.
"Mine," he murmurs appreciatively, his hands sliding down to grip my hips. "All mine."
His lips continue their journey downward, pressing kisses across my ribs, over my stomach where our babies grow. There's something reverent in the way he lingers there, his tattooed hands splayed protectively across my belly.
When he looks up at me, his eyes hold such tenderness it makes my heart ache.
In this moment, I'm not hiding anymore.
I'm fully seen, fully known, and still wanted.
I moan when he reaches my thighs. Whimper when he presses tender kisses along the inside of one leg and then the other. Tremble when the warmth of his mouth sends tiny tremors of electricity racing through me.
I squirm on the counter, desperate for him to move those lips just an inch higher. But he's deliberate and purposeful, kissing everywhere except where I need him to kiss the most.
"Ruslan," I whisper, my voice strained with need.
His golden eyes flick up to meet mine, a question in them even as his mouth continues its torturous journey along my inner thigh. I realize what he's doing.
He's still waiting for permission, asking without words if this is what I want.
After all this time, he's still making sure I'm the one in control.
I thread my fingers through his curls, tugging gently. "Are you going to make me beg?"
His lips curve against my skin. "I wasn't planning on it," he murmurs, his breath hot against my thigh. "But now that you're offering..."
Heat floods my cheeks, but the ache between my legs drowns out any embarrassment.
"Please," I whisper, barely audible.
He nips gently at my thigh. "You can do better than that, zarechka ."
Something about his confidence, the hunger in his eyes, makes me bold. Makes me want to surrender completely.
"Please," I gasp, louder this time. "I need your mouth on me. I need to feel your tongue inside me."
His tattooed fingers press into my thighs, parting them wider as he positions himself between them. But still, he hovers, his breath teasing my sensitive skin.
"Please, Daddy," I hear myself whimper, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
His eyes flash hot with surprise and desire. Then, something primal crosses his face.
Possession, hunger, and reverence all mixed together.
Exactly what I want to see.