Chapter Twenty-Six
Arkady
I watch her sleep.
The night has passed. The room holds the half-dark of early morning—that suspended hour when the darkness hasn’t quite lifted. Her breathing is soft, steady, the kind of rhythm that makes you believe nothing bad can touch you.
The sheets are tangled around her hips. One arm curves above her head, the other rests across her belly.
Our baby.
The concept feels foreign. Dangerous. Like something that could come apart if I examine it too closely. But the possessiveness… that’s familiar territory. Mine. She’s mine now in every way that matters. Legally, soon, if she says yes. Biologically already.
No one will take her from me. Not my father. Not anyone.
I shift onto my elbow, studying her face.
The exhaustion that’s been carving lines around her mouth has smoothed out in sleep.
Her lips part slightly with each exhale.
Dark lashes fan against her cheeks. She looks younger like this—softer, without all that fire and suspicion she wears when she’s awake.
Beautiful.
She’s always been beautiful. Even at that disaster of a wedding, when her dress split, and I couldn’t stop staring. Even when she was shouting at me in the corridor, demanding answers I wouldn’t give. Even yesterday, when she looked at me like nothing made sense.
Now she’s here. In my bed. Carrying my child.
Bozhe moi.
My hand moves before I can think better of it. I ease back the sheet covering her torso. The fabric whispers as it slides down, exposing the curve of her waist, the gentle swell of her breasts, the flat plane of her stomach.
Except it’s not flat anymore.
There. Right there.
The bump is small—barely visible unless you’re looking for it. But I’m looking. Now that I know, I can’t unsee it. The slight roundness just below her navel. The way her skin stretches differently. The life growing beneath.
My second baby.
The thought slams into me sideways. Aleks upstairs in his crib, tiny fists curled against his chest. And this one here, still hidden, still safe inside Mirabel, where nothing can hurt them.
Two children.
My throat tightens.
I reach out, fingers hovering above her skin. Then I touch. Just my fingertips at first, tracing the curve of that small bump. Her skin is warm, impossibly soft. I spread my palm flat, covering the place where our baby grows.
Mine. This child is mine. She is mine.
Sara. We could call her Sara. Or maybe it’ll be another boy. It doesn’t matter. They’re mine.
They’re both mine.
And I’ll destroy anyone who threatens them.
Mirabel winces. It’s subtle—the smallest tightening around her eyes, a hitch in her breathing. That’s how I know she’s awake. But she keeps her eyes closed, lying still beneath my touch.
Playing possum.
I don’t call her on it. Instead, I let my hand slide up, brushing aside the strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead. I trace the line of her brow, the angle of her cheekbone. Study her face like I’m memorizing it.
The resemblance hits me again.
Genetics really is fucking amazing. Debra is a carbon copy.
She’s getting better. Slowly. Dr. Harrison says she’s making progress. She’s eating more, sleeping better. Since she’s been here, she’s put on weight—the kind that comes from feeling safe, from not having to fight for every breath. Now there’s color in her cheeks. Strength returning to her frame.
I doubt she had much of an appetite in my father’s house.
The understatement tastes bitter. Years of rape and torture reduced to “poor appetite.” My teeth grind together. I force my mouth to relax before I crack a molar.
My hand moves lower, cupping Mirabel’s breast. The weight of it fills my palm. I remember these. The ones I admired at my wedding that went to hell. The way they looked in that dress, the way the fabric clung before it split.
It all started there.
In that registry office with the torn dress and the pregnant fiancée I walked away from. The shocked faces. Rosanna’s tears. Mirabel’s wide eyes as I turned my back on everything.
Now we’re here. In this bed. Her body still warm from mine, carrying the evidence of every choice I’ve made since that day.
I can’t believe the things that have happened since that wedding. Or what’s about to happen now. I rise from the bed.
“Don’t leave.”
Her voice is rough with sleep, eyes still closed. I feel her words against my palm where it rests on her ribs.
“I’m not,” I say.
I slide out of bed anyway. Naked, I cross to where my trousers are folded over the chair. The fabric is cool under my fingers as I dig into the pocket, feeling for the small box.
Found it yesterday. Had my jeweler open at three in the morning because I needed it now. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now.
The box fits perfectly in my palm as I return to the bed.
“Open your eyes.”
She does. Slowly. Her eyes focus on my face first, wary, searching. Then they drop to my hand.
“Sit up.”
She pulls herself up, dragging the sheet with her. Holds it bunched under her chin like armor. Her hair is a mess, tangled from sleep and my hands. There’s a mark on her neck from my mouth.
I click the box open.
The diamond catches what little light there is, scattering it into fragments. It’s not the biggest stone—I’m not trying to weigh her down. But it’s perfect. Clear as water, set in platinum with smaller stones around the band.
Her breath stops.
“Mirabel McLeod.” I’m surprised at how rough my voice is. I clear my throat. “Marry me.”
Her eyes lift to mine. There are tears there, pooling at the corners.
“Arkady—”
“I know I’ve fucked this up. All of it.” The words come faster now, urgent. “I lied to you. Kept things from you. Made you think you were crazy for hearing things, for seeing shadows. I should have told you about Debra the second I brought her home. Should have told you about Aleks.”
“You—”
“I’m not finished.” I shift closer, the mattress dipping under my weight.
The box stays open in my hand, the diamond catching light like a promise.
I promise I plan to keep for the rest of my life.
“I’m a mess, zaychik. I have more issues than I know what to do with.
My father’s a monster. My mother’s dead because of me. My brother—”
I stop. Force myself to breathe.
“I told myself I’d never have children. That I’d never put another kid at risk.
That I was too broken, too dangerous, too much like Gavriil.
” I look down at the ring, then back at her face.
“And maybe I am dangerous. Maybe that’s not something that changes.
But you—you and this baby and Aleks—you make me want to weaponize it.
Point it in the right direction for once. ”
Her hands twist in the sheet.
“I’m happy.” The words taste strange. Foreign. But they’re true. “About the baby. About all of it. Things are happening fast—I know that. Six months ago, I was walking away from fatherhood at the altar. Now I’m diving in at the deep end.”
I reach out, touching her cheek.
“That’s a very big shift. I know it is. At the beginning of all this, I flatly refused to have kids. After Mishka died, I learned that you can lose anyone in an instant. That loving someone, needing someone, makes you weak. Vulnerable.”
My thumb traces her jawline.
“But that’s changing. You’re changing it. The thought of you carrying my baby, of Aleks upstairs, of building something that isn’t built on blood and violence—” I stop. Try again. “I want this, Mirabel. I want you. I want us to be family.”
She doesn’t say anything. I can hear my own pulse in my ears, can feel the weight of her stare.
Then she moves.
Her hand comes up, covering mine where it rests against her face. Tears spill over, tracking down her cheeks.
“Yes.”
The word breaks something loose in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Yes.” She’s nodding now, crying and smiling at the same time. “Yes, I’ll marry you, you infuriating, secretive, impossible man.”
I don’t remember moving. Don’t remember reaching for her.
But suddenly she’s in my arms, the sheet falling away, her body pressed against mine.
I kiss her—hard enough to bruise, one hand fisting in her hair, the other arm banded around her waist. She makes a sound against my mouth, half gasp, half moan.
I taste salt from her tears, the sweetness beneath.
I bite her lower lip. Not hard enough to break skin. Just hard enough to remind her who she belongs to.
“Give me your hand,” I say against her mouth.
She does. Left hand, fingers trembling slightly.
I slide the ring on. It fits perfectly. The diamond catches light, throws it back at us in tiny rainbows.
Mirabel stares at it. Then at me. Then back at her hand.
“It’s beautiful.”
“So are you.”
She laughs. Actually laughs. The sound fills the gray-lit room, chases away some of the shadows that live here permanently.
“You’re going to be a husband,” she says, wonder in her voice. “And a father. Of two.”
“I know.”
“Are you scared?”
“Terrified.” More truth. The kind that used to make me feel exposed. Weak. “But fear makes you sharp. Makes you lethal. I can work with terrified.”
She laughs softly. “That’s the most Arkady thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s true.” I pull her closer. “I’m afraid I’ll fuck this up. Afraid I’ll fail you the way I failed Mishka. But I’m more afraid of what I’ll become if I lose you. So yeah, zaychik. Terrified works.”
“Crazy man.” She shakes her head, smiling.
“Your crazy man. Now… come here.” I pull her back down to the mattress, arranging her against my chest. My hand finds her stomach again, resting there. Protecting. “Get some more sleep.”
“It’s almost morning.”
“I don’t care.”
She settles against me with a sigh. Her breath evens out quickly, exhaustion pulling her under. I stay awake, watching the light grow stronger through the curtains. Feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. The warmth of her skin. The weight of what I’ve just done.
Engaged.
To a woman who’s carrying my baby.
Who loves her sister more than her own life.
Who won’t stop asking questions.
Who sees through my bullshit even when I’m trying my hardest to hide.
Who makes me want to be better than what I am.
My hand tightens on her stomach. I’ll keep them safe. Both of them. All four of them, counting Aleks and Debra.
Whatever it takes.
Even if it means finally confronting the ghost of Mishka. Even if it means war with my father. Even if it means destroying everything I’ve built to protect what matters.
And I will go to war. Gavriil thinks he can operate in my city, under my nose, taking what he wants. He’s wrong. The trafficking pipeline dies with him. Every man who touched Debra dies with him.
I’ve killed for less than family before.
For them? I’ll paint the streets red.
Family.
Mine.
The word doesn’t feel foreign anymore.
It feels like a loaded gun—heavy with potential, dangerous, capable of destruction.
It feels right.