Epilogue Svetlana
The apartment is quiet when we walk through the door, a peaceful silence that only comes in the early morning hours. Kazimir carries the car seat carefully. Inside, our daughter sleeps, her tiny face peaceful, her impossibly small hands curled into fists.
Anya. Our Anya.
I follow behind, exhausted but unable to stop staring at her. Three days old, and already she's become our whole world. The way Kazimir looks at her—like she's made of spun glass—makes my chest ache in a good way. A way I’ve never felt before.
He sets the car seat down gently on the coffee table, then straightens, his hand going to his lower back. The missing finger on his right hand is still jarring sometimes, a reminder of everything we've been through. But he doesn't seem to notice it anymore. Or if he does, he doesn't care.
"I'll make tea," he says, already moving toward the kitchen. "You should sit. Rest."
"I'm fine." But I sink onto the couch anyway, my body grateful for the soft cushions. Childbirth is no joke. Every muscle aches, and I'm pretty sure I'll never walk normally again.
Kazimir returns a few minutes later with two mugs, setting mine on the side table before settling beside me. His arm goes around my shoulders automatically, and I lean into him, breathing in his familiar scent.
"She's perfect," I whisper, watching Anya sleep. "Isn't she perfect?"
"She's perfect because she's yours." His voice is soft, full of wonder. "She has your nose. Your mouth."
"She has your eyes." I'd noticed it in the hospital, the way her eyes—when she bothered to open them—were the same pale blue as her father's. "And your stubborn chin."
He laughs quietly. "God help us if she has my temper."
"Or mine."
We sit in comfortable silence, just watching her breathe. It feels like the most miraculous thing I've ever seen.
"The results came back," Kazimir says suddenly, his voice careful. "From the paternity test."
My stomach tightens. "And?" I ask, my heart beating hard. I tell myself that it won’t matter, that I want to know, but a part of me doesn’t. A part of me doesn’t want to see the truth if she isn’t Kazimir’s biologically, even though I know he’ll love her just the same.
I don’t want those monsters to be any part of my child.
Kazimir pulls out his phone, tapping the screen a few times before handing it to me. I read the results, and the relief that washes through me makes me feel faint.
99.9% probability of paternity.
She's his. Officially, legally, scientifically his.
"I never doubted," he says quietly. "Not for a second. But now it’s in black and white. She's mine. You're mine. And no one can ever question that again."
I hand the phone back, my throat tight. "What did Ilya say?" He came to the hospital to speak with Kazimir, although he avoided me, and the meeting was brief. I’m aware of what else he told Kazimir that night—that Kazimir is no longer his enforcer. That, too, brought me some relief, even though I know it means changing everything about his life. I just wish the rest of the price hadn’t been quite so high.
I’m grateful to Ilya for coming to save me. But I’ll never entirely forgive him for what he did to Kazimir.
"He said..." Kazimir pauses, choosing his words carefully.
"He said that family is family. That I gave him years of loyal service, and he hasn’t forgotten that.
He's setting up a trust fund for her. And he's made it clear to everyone in the organization that you and Anya are under his protection.
Anyone who threatens you answers to him.
The same goes for any other children we might have, of course. "
I laugh, the sound watery. "More children? I just pushed a human out of my body three days ago. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
"Fair point." He kisses my temple. "But someday, maybe. When you're ready. If you want."
"Maybe," I agree. "Someday."
Anya stirs in her car seat, making a small sound of protest. Kazimir is on his feet immediately, carefully lifting her out and cradling her against his chest. She settles instantly, her tiny hand curling around his finger—the middle one on his right hand, since the index finger is gone.
He doesn't seem to care. All his attention is on her, on this tiny person who has completely stolen his heart.
"Hello, printsessa," he murmurs, his voice soft and full of love. "Did you have a good sleep? Are you hungry?"
As if in answer, Anya's face scrunches up, and she lets out a wail that seems impossibly loud for such a small person. "I think that's a yes," I laugh, already unbuttoning my shirt. "Bring her here."
Kazimir settles beside me, carefully transferring Anya into my arms. She latches on immediately, and the room falls quiet again except for the soft sounds of her feeding.
Kazimir watches us, his expression unreadable. Then he says, so quietly I almost miss it, "Thank you."
"For what?" I look at him curiously.
"For this. For her. For giving me a family when I didn't deserve one." His voice cracks slightly. "For loving me even when I didn't deserve that either."
I reach out with my free hand, cupping his face. "You deserve it now. You've earned it. Every day, you earn it."
He leans into my touch, his eyes closing. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret choosing me."
"I know." I stroke my thumb across his cheekbone. "I know you will."
Anya finishes feeding and promptly falls back asleep, milk-drunk and content.
Kazimir takes her, burping her before laying her in the bassinet we've set up in the living room.
Then he returns to the couch, pulling me against him.
I rest my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"We did it," I whisper. "We actually did it."
"We did." His hand strokes through my hair, gentle and soothing. "We survived. We built something real. Something good."
I close my eyes, exhaustion pulling at me. But it's a good exhaustion, from bringing new life into the world. From building a future worth everything that it took to get here.
"I love you," I murmur, already half-asleep.
"I love you too," Kazimir replies, his voice soft. "Both of you. More than anything."
And as I drift off, safe in his arms, with our daughter sleeping peacefully nearby, I think about how far we've come. From that cell in Russia to this moment. From fear and pain and survival to love and hope and family.
It hasn't been easy. But it's been worth it. All of it led us here.
Home.
I hope you enjoyed Devil’s Claim!
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Twisted Devotion is my upcoming stalker romance, and features viral tropes we all love:
Italian mob boss x virgin heroine
Obsessive, protective MMC
Stalker romance (“he’s obsessed”)
Touch her and die protection
College/Mafia adult academia setting
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Chapter One
Savannah
The August heat hits me the moment I step out of the taxi, thick and oppressive in a different way from Charleston. It’s not that Southern humidity, but a baking, oven-like heat that makes me feel as if I might catch flame just standing outside for too long.
New York City smells different too—exhaust and hot pavement and a sort of crowded, lived-in smell that makes my stomach flutter with equal parts excitement and terror.
I’m standing on the sidewalk outside the NYU graduate housing building, my two suitcases at my feet, and for the first time in my twenty-two years, I'm completely alone.
No father watching my every move. No household staff reporting back to him. No Thaddeus hovering at my elbow, his hand possessive on the small of my back.
Just me.
The thought should be liberating. It is liberating. But there's a tightness in my chest that won't quite release, a voice in the back of my mind that sounds suspiciously like my father reminding me that this freedom has a price. That I've already agreed to pay it.
Don't think about that now, I tell myself firmly, grabbing the handle of my larger suitcase. You have two years. Two whole years before you have to go back for anything more than the occasional visit and holidays.
The building's lobby is mercifully air-conditioned, and I take a moment to catch my breath while a student worker checks me in.
He's much less friendly than what I’m used to back home, all efficiency and no small talk, handing me my keys and a packet of information about move-in procedures.
I quickly discover that my apartment is on the fourth floor, and the elevator is out of order, apparently.
By the time I've hauled both suitcases up the stairs, I'm sweating through my linen blouse despite the building's AC, and my carefully styled hair is starting to frizz at my temples.
So much for making a good first impression on my roommate.
I pause outside apartment 4C, smoothing down my hair and taking a deep breath before I knock.
The door flies open before my knuckles can make contact.
"Oh my God, you must be Savannah!" The girl standing in the doorway is tall and curvy, with dark curls pulled into a messy bun and a casual, effortless style I've always envied but would be grounded in an instant if I ever tried to put into practice. She’s wearing ripped jeans, an oversized band t-shirt, has multiple ear piercings and a nose piercing, and a smile so genuine it immediately puts me at ease.
"I'm Vivian. Vivian Davis. I’m your roommate!
Come in, come in! Let me help you with those. "