Epilogue
Six months later
Lily
The bakery looks different in the winter morning light.
I stand across the street, one hand resting on my rounded belly, watching through the large front windows as the new manager, Mariska, a woman Zakhar found who actually knows how to run a profitable bakery, serves a steady stream of customers.
The place is packed with people waiting in line for fresh bread, pastries and coffee. The display cases are full but constantly being restocked. The register keeps ringing.
It's everything I wanted it to be and could never make it.
"You okay?" Zakhar's voice comes from beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. A grounding touch that's become as natural as breathing.
"Yeah," I say, and mean it. "Just... taking it in."
We've been doing this once a week since I decided to keep the bakery. Coming by, watching from a distance. Making sure it's thriving without me drowning in it.
It was Zakhar's idea. Keep the business, hire proper management, turn it into something sustainable. A legacy for our child, or children, if Zakhar gets his way, but not something that consumes me.
"Your aunt would be proud," he says quietly.
"You think so?"
"I know so. You didn't let it die. You saved it. Just differently than you planned."
The baby kicks, hard enough that I wince. Zakhar's hand immediately slides to my belly, pressing where our son is doing gymnastics.
Our son. The confirmation came three months ago, and Zakhar has been insufferable ever since. Protective, possessive, constantly touching my stomach like he can't quite believe he's real.
"He's active today," he murmurs.
"He's always active. I think he gets it from you."
"Good. Strong like his mother. Stubborn like his father."
"God help us."
He laughs, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Ready to go? Charlotte's expecting us for lunch."
"In a minute."
I take one more look at the bakery. At the success that came from letting go, from accepting help, from accepting I couldn't do it all alone.
At the life I almost missed because I was too stubborn to see another way.
Then I turn away, Zakhar's hand finding mine automatically, and we walk back to the car.
Our house is quiet when we arrive. Zakhar has been working from home more, handling Bratva business from his office while staying close to me.
Overprotective doesn't begin to cover it. But I don't mind as much as I probably should.
I settle on the couch with a book, feet propped up because my ankles are swelling again. Zakhar disappears into the kitchen, returning with water, fruit, and that look that says he's about to fuss over me.
"I'm fine," I say before he can start.
"You're six months pregnant. Let me take care of you." He raises one perfectly arched brow in challenge.
"You're always taking care of me,” I state.
"That's the point of being your husband."
He sets the food on the coffee table and settles beside me, pulling my feet into his lap. Then he starts massaging them, hitting exactly the right pressure points.
I moan despite myself. "That's not fair."
"What's not fair?"
"Being this good at everything I enjoy."
"I'm not good at everything. I am good at what I enjoy. And I enjoy taking care of what’s mine."
The possessiveness used to scare me, even piss me off a little. Now it just makes me feel safe and wanted.
I set down my book, watching him. This man who crashed into my life bleeding and desperate, who somehow became everything I didn't know I needed.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"I was just thinking."
"About?"
"About how six months ago, I was drowning. Alone. Terrified. Breaking myself for a business that was failing no matter how hard I tried."
"And now?"
"Now I'm pregnant with a Bratva soldier's baby, living on a family compound, watching my bakery thrive without me, and I'm happier than ever."
His hands still on my feet. "You're happy?"
"Yes. Ridiculously happy.
He shifts, pulling me into his lap carefully, mindful of my belly. "Whatever comes, whatever happens, we handle it together. You're not alone anymore, Lily. You never will be again."
Tears prick my eyes. Hormones, probably. But also truth.
“Besides, even if you wanted to leave, I don’t think Jasmine would let you. She likes that the women are starting to equal the men…” He trails off and I let out a short laugh.
"I love you." The words slip out before I can stop them. We haven't said it yet, despite everything. Despite the marriage that happened the day after I found out I was pregnant. Despite the life we're building.
His expression softens. "Say it again."
"I love you, Zakhar. Even though you're possessive and overbearing and you make decisions without asking me first sometimes."
"I love you too. Even though you're stubborn and you fight me on everything and you refuse to let me carry you up the stairs even though you're six months pregnant."
"I can still walk up stairs," I huff.
"Not the point."
I kiss him lightly on the mouth. Taking a moment to just feel the kiss when he returns it, one hand cradling my face, the other pressed protectively over our son.
"Thank you," I whisper against his lips.
"For what?"
"For bleeding on my doorstep. For being too stubborn to leave. For seeing something in me worth keeping."
"I should be thanking you. For opening the door. For saving my life. For giving me everything I didn't know I wanted."
The baby kicks again, hard enough that we both feel it. Zakhar's hand spreads wider over my belly, thumb stroking gently.
"He's going to be a fighter," he says.
"With you as his father? Absolutely."
"And you as his mother. Smart, strong, fearless."
"I'm not fearless."
"You opened the door to a bleeding stranger who is three times the size of you. That's pretty fearless."
"Hah,” I snort. “That was stupidity."
"That was fate."
I laugh despite myself. "You're very certain about that."
"I'm certain about us. About this." His hand presses firmer against my belly. "About our family."
Our family. The words still feel surreal. But good. Right.
"Lily?" His voice has taken on that soft quality that is so rare, from him, that it stops my thoughts in their tracks.
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to take care of you. Both of you. For the rest of our lives. You know that, right?"
"I know." I smile at the thought.
"And you're okay with that?"
I think about the family that's welcomed me with open arms. The home we've built together. The child growing inside me.
The man who saw me drowning and pulled me to shore, then taught me how to breathe again.
"I'm more than okay with it," I say. "I'm grateful for it."
He kisses me again, deeper this time. A promise and a claim and a declaration all at once.
Three months later
The contractions start at three in the morning.
Zakhar is immediately awake, already reaching for his phone to call the doctor before I can tell him it's still early labor.
"We have time," I say, breathing through the pain.
"We're going to the hospital. Now."
"Zakhar—"
"Now, Lily."
There's no arguing with him when he uses that tone. Within twenty minutes, we're in the car, Paul driving while Zakhar holds my hand so tight I'm losing circulation.
"You're hurting me," I say gently.
He immediately loosens his grip. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Are you okay? Is the baby okay? Should we—"
"Breathe. I'm fine. He's fine. This is normal."
"Nothing about this is normal."
Despite the pain, I laugh. "You literally handle violence for a living. Is this truly scarier?"
"Yes. Because I can't control it. Can't—"
Another contraction hits, cutting off his spiral. I squeeze his hand through it, breathing like they taught us in the classes he insisted we take.
The hospital is ready when we arrive. A private room, the best doctors money can buy, security stationed outside because of course Zakhar arranged that.
The labor is long, painful and exhausting. But Zakhar is there through all of it. Holding my hand. Letting me scream at him. Wiping my forehead. Telling me I'm doing amazing even when I'm pretty sure I'm dying.
And when our son finally arrives, when they place him in my arms, tiny and perfect and screaming, Zakhar looks at him like he's a miracle.
"He's perfect," he whispers, voice rough.
Zakhar reaches out, one finger stroking his tiny hand. He immediately grips it, holding on with surprising strength.
"Thank you," Zakhar says quietly.
"For what?" I ask, sleepy and high on the oxytocin flooding my veins.
"For opening the door. For saving me. For giving me this,” he says with what can only be described as wonderment.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"I love you," he whispers. "Both of you. Forever."
"Forever," I echo, watching our son sleep.
I know, with absolute certainty, that he means it. This man who claimed me, who protected me, who gave me everything I was too afraid to want, he's mine.