Epilogue - Talia
Nine Months Later
"I swear to God, Anton, if you tell me to 'be careful' one more time, I will sit on this marble floor and refuse to move."
I'm trying to sound menacing, but it's ruined by the fact that I have to pause for breath.
I'm... large. "Heavily pregnant" doesn't quite cover it.
I'm nine months pregnant with the heir to the Ismailov empire, and I feel less like a glowing goddess and more like a small planet who is permanently annoyed.
Anton just looks at me, his face a mask of infuriating calm. He's leaning against a doorframe in the penthouse, arms crossed over his chest, looking like he owns the world. Which he does. "You will not sit on the floor, moya zhena."
"Don't test me," I grumble, waddling over to the small, packed box on the table. It's just my favorite mug and a framed picture of our ultrasound.
"Talia." His voice is low, a warning.
"I am capable of picking up a box, Anton. It weighs maybe two pounds."
"The rule was not a feather," he says, his eyes glinting. "You are not to lift a thing. That is what Troy and his men are for."
I huff, planting my hands on my hips, which is really just resting them on the high, hard swell of my belly. "This is ridiculous. I don't even know why we're moving. I like living here."
"I know you do," he says, and his face softens, the Pakhan melting away to just be my husband.
He crosses the room in two strides, his big, warm hands landing on my stomach.
Our son kicks in response, a solid thump against his palm.
"I like having you here. I like that I come up from a meeting and have you. "
"And I like that I can pop down and bother you," I agree, leaning my head against his chest. "It's perfect. So why are we...?"
"Because," he says, his voice a low rumble against my ear, "the penthouse is for us.
It is for the long weekends when we want to be alone and I can have you, all night, without a baby monitor.
" Heat coils low in my belly at the implication, even after all this time.
"But children," he continues, his voice quieter, "need space.
They need... grass. A safe place to run.
A place neither of us had for very long.
We will give our son the best, Talia. We will give him a real home. "
My throat tightens. He's right. He's always right. "A forever home," I whisper. "Okay. But I'm going to miss the view."
"I will give you a better one," he says simply, and he kisses me, a slow, deep kiss that still makes my knees weak.
The drive is not what I expected. It's not a long drive at all.
Just out of the city, to a quiet, ridiculously wealthy suburb on the river.
The car pulls through a massive set of iron gates, up a long, tree-lined drive, and stops in front of a house that looks more like a modern museum.
It's all glass and warm stone, built into a hill, private and secure.
"Anton..."
"It's just a house," he says. "Come. We stopped for lunch, but I'm sure you're hungry again."
He fusses, of course. He fusses with my seatbelt, fusses with the steps up to the porch, fusses with the chair in the massive kitchen.
And... everything is here. "What...?" I look around.
The kitchen is fully stocked. Our books are on the shelves in the living room.
Our clothes. "I... I thought this was moving day," I say, confused.
"It is." He kisses my temple. "But I know you. If I brought you here and it was not finished, you would immediately start working. You would not rest. And my wife, and my son, must rest."
"You... you had everyone unpack while we were at lunch?"
"I had everyone unpack for the last three days," he corrects me, pulling out a chair for me at a table that is already set. "It is done. Everything is to your satisfaction."
Tender, overwhelming emotion clogs my throat. This man. This terrifying, possessive, Bratva boss. He knows me. He sees the part of me that is still that girl from the foster system, the one who can't rest, the one who has to do things herself to make sure they're real. And he just... handles it.
"I... It's perfect," I whisper, looking around. "It's... a lot."
"It is not." He smiles. "It is just the beginning. Now, I have one more thing to show you."
"Anton, you've shown me enough..."
"This, you will want to see." He leads me through the house, his hand firm on the small of my back, guiding me.
We go out sliding glass doors, onto a huge stone patio.
There's a lawn, green and perfect, that slopes down toward the river.
And in the corner, under a massive oak tree—a kennel.
Not a kennel. A beautiful, miniature version of the house, with a little fenced-in yard.
"Anton?" I ask, my heart starting a ragged, fast rhythm.
"You said you were sad to leave the penthouse. That you would be alone here, when I am at the office."
"I'm not alone, I have..." I pat my belly.
"I know." He squeezes my hand. "But I thought.
.. you might like a different kind of security.
" He whistles, a sharp, clear sound. A door on the little doghouse swings open, and a puppy comes tumbling out.
It's a beagle. But not a normal one. He's almost entirely pristine white, with two perfect, floppy black ears, and a single black spot on his back.
Just like the cartoon. Just like the stuffed animal from my memory.
He bounds across the grass, yipping, and tumbles to a stop at my feet.
My hands fly to my mouth. I can't breathe. "Oh..." The sound is a choked, broken sob. I lower myself to my knees, which is a feat. The puppy, all wiggles and wet nose, scrambles into my lap, licking my hands. "Snoopy..." I whisper, my voice cracking.
Tears are streaming down my face, hot and fast. I'm sobbing, my shoulders shaking. I look up at Anton, who is watching me, his face full of a raw, tender emotion I've only ever seen when we're alone in the dark.
"You... you remembered," I cry, my hand fisting in the puppy's thick fur. "That stupid story... You remembered."
He comes to me, kneeling in front of me on the grass, his custom suit be damned. He frames my face with his hands, his thumbs wiping away my tears.
"I remember everything you say, Talia," he says, his voice rough.
"It was not a stupid story. It was a map.
It was a piece of your past I could fix.
" He kisses me, tasting my tears, the salt, and the nine months of love that have built a fortress around my heart.
"He is not a stuffed dog," Anton murmurs against my lips.
"My people located a breeder in England who specializes in this coloration. I thought... he could guard our son."
"He's perfect," I sob, laughing and crying all at once.
Anton pulls me to my feet, one arm around me, the other under the wiggling puppy.
We are a family. A broken and ridiculously powerful family.
He holds us, me and the puppy and the son under my heart, and he kisses my temple.
"Anything for you, moya zhena." He whispers. "My love. My wife. Anything. Forever."