Epilogue
Matilda
I know who it is before Marie appears in the doorway of the sitting room, her face tight with disapproval.
"Your father is here," she says, the words clipped. "He's demanding to see you."
I set down the book I've been pretending to read and place both hands on my swollen belly. Eight months pregnant, and the baby has been active all morning, kicking and rolling like they're already impatient to join the world.
Gennady's child. Our child.
The thought steadies me.
"Show him in," I say calmly.
Marie's eyebrows rise. "Are you sure? The Pakhan—"
"Is in a meeting that I'm not going to interrupt." I stand slowly, my center of gravity shifted by the pregnancy. "And I can handle my father."
She hesitates, then nods and disappears. I hear low voices in the hallway, then footsteps approaching.
My father appears in the doorway, and for a moment, neither of us speaks.
He looks older. Grayer. The lines around his mouth are deeper, carved by bitterness and grief. His suit is expensive but slightly wrinkled, and I realize with a start that my mother probably isn't taking care of him the way she used to.
Good.
His eyes go immediately to my stomach, and something ugly crosses his face. Rage, maybe. Or disgust.
"So it's true," he says. "You're pregnant with the bastard's child."
I lift my chin. "I'm pregnant with my husband's child. And you'll refer to the Pakhan with respect, or you'll leave."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Respect? You want me to respect the man who murdered my son, your brother?"
"Sergei got what he deserved." My voice is steady, cold. "He assaulted the Pakhan's sister. He was always going to end up dead, it was just a question of when."
"He was your brother—"
"He was a monster who made my life hell for twenty-three years." I take a step closer. "And you enabled him. You excused him. You made me clean up his messes and take his punishments while you pretended he was some kind of golden child."
My father's face flushes. "I came here to offer you a way out."
"A way out?" I almost laugh. "Of what?"
"Of this." He gestures around the room, at me, at everything. "You think you're safe here? You think this marriage means anything? He killed your brother, Matilda. What makes you think he won't kill you too when you stop being useful?"
The words are meant to frighten me. To make me doubt. To make me small again.
They don't.
"I know exactly what Gennady is capable of," I say quietly. "I've always known. And unlike you, he's never pretended to be something he's not. He's dangerous, yes. Violent, yes. But he's never lied to me. Never made me feel like I was worthless. Never made me apologize for existing."
"He's using you—"
"No." I cut him off. "You're projecting. You used me my entire life. Made me responsible for Sergei's behavior. Made me clean up his messes. Made me into a ghost in my own home because I had the misfortune of being born second and female."
My father takes a step toward me, and I see the flash of violence in his eyes, the same look he used to get before he'd slap me for talking back.
But I'm not that girl anymore.
"Don't," I say, and my voice carries an authority that surprises even me. "You're in the Pakhan's house, and I'm his wife. You lay one finger on me, and you won't make it to the front door. Won’t ever feel the sunlight on your face again, because I’ll make sure they bury you face down."
He freezes, and I see the moment he realizes I'm not bluffing.
"I came here to give you a choice," he says, voice shaking with barely controlled rage. "Come home. Be part of the family again. We can tell everyone you were coerced, that you had no choice—"
"I had every choice." I place my hand protectively on my belly. "And I chose myself. I chose him. I chose this. And I would make the same choice a thousand times over."
"You're a traitor—"
"I'm free." The word rings out, clear and final. "And you have no power over me anymore. None. You can't hurt me. You can't manipulate me. You can't make me feel small or worthless or guilty for existing."
"Matilda—"
"Mrs. Petrova," I correct coldly. "That's who I am to you now. And you will address me as such, or you will leave my home."
The "my home" is deliberate. A claim. A statement of ownership and belonging that I never could have made in his house.
My father's face goes purple. "You think you're so powerful now? You think this man loves you? He'll discard you the moment—"
"Enough."
The single word comes from the doorway, and we both turn.
Gennady stands there, perfectly still, perfectly controlled. But I can see the violence simmering beneath the surface. Can see how badly he wants to cross the room and break my father's neck.
But he doesn't move. Because he's waiting to see what I want.
I stand a little taller as warmth blooms in my chest.
"I was just explaining to my father that he needs to leave," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"I can see that." Gennady's eyes don't leave my father. "And I'm here to make sure he understands the consequences if he ever tries to contact you again."
My father turns to face him. "You can't keep her prisoner—"
"I'm not a prisoner," I interrupt. "I'm exactly where I want to be.
With exactly who I want to be with. And if you ever come to my home again, if you ever try to contact me or my child, you won't just be dealing with my husband.
You'll be dealing with me. And you better believe that me being a traitor is one of my nicer qualities. "
The threat hangs in the air, and I see my father's Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
"You've changed," he says, and it sounds like an accusation.
"Yes," I agree. "I have. I'm not the daughter you bullied and controlled anymore, and you should leave before you find out exactly what that means."
For a moment, I think he might argue. Might try to assert some phantom authority he thinks he still has over me.
But then his eyes flick to Gennady, to the cold promise of violence in his expression, and something in him crumbles.
"You'll regret this," he mutters, already backing toward the door.
"No, I won’t," I say simply. "Not even for a second."
He leaves without another word, and I hear Marie practically slam the door behind him.
The silence that follows is total.
Then Gennady crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms, careful of my belly between us.
"You didn't need me," he murmurs against my hair.
"No," I agree. "But I'm glad you were here anyway."
He pulls back to look at me, his hands framing my face. "You are magnificent."
"I was terrified."
"You didn't show it." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "You stood your ground. Defended yourself and our child. Claimed your power." His eyes are dark and intense. "You're everything I knew you would be."
"What's that?"
"The perfect Pakhan's wife." He leans down to kiss me, deep and possessive. "Strong. Fearless. And completely mine."
The last word is more growl than speech, and I feel heat pool low in my belly despite the baby pressing against every internal organ.
"Gennady—"
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his hands sliding down to rest on my swollen stomach. "Watching you stand up to him. Watching you claim your place. Watching you protect our child." His voice drops lower. "I want you so fucking much right now I can barely think straight."
"I'm eight months pregnant," I point out, even as my body responds to his words.
"I know." His hands span my belly possessively. "Do you have any idea how perfect you look like this? Carrying my child? Showing the whole world that you're mine?"
"Gennady—"
"Upstairs," he commands. "Now."
Gennady
We barely make it to the bedroom before I'm on her.
Eight months pregnant, and she's never been more beautiful. Never been more mine.
Her body has changed, curves I already obsessed over made fuller, her breasts heavy and sensitive, her belly swollen with my child, and I'm made completely unhinged by every inch of her.
I strip her carefully, reverently, and lay her on the bed. I'm already so hard it aches.
I settle beside her, running my hands over her body. Her skin is warm and soft, stretched over the swell of our child, and the sight makes something primal surge through me.
"Mine," I murmur, leaning down to press kisses to her stomach. "Both of you. Mine."
She shivers as I work my way up to her tits. When I take one nipple into my mouth, she gasps.
"Oh—" she moans, long and slow, causing precum to pulse from my tip.
"I love you like this." My hand slides down to cup her belly. "Love seeing you round with my child. Love knowing everyone who looks at you knows exactly who you belong to."
"Possessive," she breathes, but there's no censure in it.
"Always." I move lower, settling between her legs. "Let me taste you."
I take my time with her, enjoying how her body has changed, what makes her gasp now versus what made her gasp eight months ago on our wedding night. She's more sensitive everywhere, more responsive, and watching her fall apart on my tongue is intoxicating.
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips and her hands fisted in my hair.
I move up her body carefully, positioning myself at her entrance.
"Tell me if anything hurts," I say.
"Just take it steady," she whispers.
I do. I ease into her inch by inch, and the feel of her makes me groan. The angle is different with her belly between us, but I adjust, finding a rhythm that works.
"God, Matilda," I breathe. "You feel incredible."
She wraps her legs around me as best she can and pulls me closer. "Harder."
"You're pregnant—"
"I'm pregnant, not broken." Her nails dig into my arms. "Harder, Gennady. I want to still feel it tomorrow."
The words break what's left of my control. I give her what she wants, driving into her with steady, powerful thrusts that make us both groan. Her hands grip my shoulders, her head falls back, and I can see the flush spreading across her chest.
She meets me thrust for thrust, her body accepting mine despite the changes, despite everything. And when I reach between us to find her clit, she shatters with a cry that's all incoherent pleasure.
The feeling of her clamping down around me drags me over the edge. I bury myself deep and come hard, filling her, marking her, claiming her all over again.
When I collapse beside her, careful not to crush her or the baby, she's smiling.
"What?" I ask.
"I love you," she says simply.
The words hit me like they always do, unexpected and overwhelming and exactly right.
"I love you too," I tell her, pulling her against my side. "Both of you."
My hand finds her belly, and I feel the baby kick against my palm. Our child. The physical proof of what we are to each other.
"One more month," she murmurs.
"One more month and our family begins." I press a kiss to her temple. "I can't wait."
"Neither can I." She covers my hand with hers. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For seeing me. For choosing me. For making me strong enough to stand up to him today."
"You did that yourself," I tell her. "I just gave you the space to realize you already had that strength."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "I really am the perfect Pakhan's wife, aren't I?"
The satisfaction in her voice makes me smile against her hair.
"Yes," I agree. "You really are."
And as we lie there, my hand on her belly and her body warm against mine, I know with absolute certainty that this; this moment, this woman, this life we're building, is everything I never knew I needed.
She chose me. And I'm going to spend every day for the rest of my life making sure she never regrets it.