Extended Epilogue
EMILIA
The sand sticks to my toes, warm and gritty between my arches, as I watch Maksim pack another fistful against the side of his castle.
Our second, Artyom, has already abandoned his own construction in favor of launching a full-scale assault with a plastic shovel, while Milana, our youngest, tries to negotiate a truce by offering her pail of seawater as tribute.
"That's not how you make a moat," Maksim informs his brother, voice dripping with the same condescension Egor uses.
Artyom responds by dumping the entire pail over Maksim's head.
And then the fight cuts off, because three pairs of eyes snap toward the boardwalk, where a familiar shadow stretches long across the sand.
Egor.
He's still in his suit, the jacket slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle.
His pewter eyes scan the beach like he's assessing threats, but the moment they land on our children, something in his face shifts.
The tension in his jaw eases. His lips part.
Maksim is the first to move, a blur of chubby legs and sandy feet as he barrels toward his father. "Papa! Papa, Artyom ruined my castle!"
Egor doesn't even glance at the destruction. His gaze flicks to me, just for a second, before he crouches down, arms open. "Did he now?"
"He's a monster," Maksim declares, launching himself at Egor's legs.
Egor grunts, but the sound is swallowed by laughter as Artyom crashes into him from the other side, followed by Milana, who's decided that if she can't beat them, she'll just climb her father like a tree. Egor stumbles, his free hand snaking out to steady himself in the sand, but he doesn't fall.
He does laugh, though. Deep and rich and real, the sound wrapping around me like a physical touch.
The kids cling to him, chattering over each other, and he listens to their stories about sandcastles and seagulls and the hermit crab Milana swears she saw as if they are the most important things he's ever heard.
Then Maksim tugs on his sleeve. "Papa, chase us!"
Egor grins, a sharp, wolfish thing that makes my stomach flip. "I have to run, right?"
Maksim nods so hard his whole body wobbles. "Yeah! Like this!" He takes off running, his little legs pumping, sand flying up behind him.
Egor doesn't move. Not at first. He just watches, like he's memorizing the way his son's laughter echoes over the waves.
Then, with a growl that sends the kids shrieking in delight, he moves, long strides eating up the distance between them.
Maksim squeals and veers left, Artyom and Milana scattering like startled crabs, their giggles high and breathless.
I should join them. But watching Egor, the Pakhan, the man who built an empire on fear and blood, drop to his knees in the sand to let his children tackle him is a kind of magic I don't ever want to break.
He lets them win, of course. Lets them climb all over him, lets them bury his legs in sand, lets them demand he build a castle bigger than they have ever seen.
His hands are gentle as he packs the wet sand, his voice low and rough as he tells them about the time he built a fort in the snow when he was a boy, back in Moscow.
Milana plops down beside him, her tiny hand patting his cheek. "Papa, you're all sweaty."
Egor turns his head, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Blame your mother. She made me chase you all alone."
I snort. "You don't need my help."
His gaze snaps to me, hot and possessive, and suddenly the beach feels very small.
The kids are still chattering, still building, still lost in their own world, but Egor's focus is mine.
His eyes rake over me, lingering on the way my sundress clings to my curves, the way my nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric.
"I will always need you," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.
Before I can respond, Maksim tugs on his sleeve again. "Papa, help me with the tower!"
Egor's gaze lingers on me for one more heartbeat before he turns back to our son, his hands steady as he helps stack the sand. But I feel him. The heat of his body, the weight of his attention, the way his presence seems to wrap around me even when he's not touching me.
I lean back on my elbows, letting the sun warm my skin, letting the sound of my family's laughter fill the spaces inside me that used to be so empty.
This is happiness.
This is home.
And it's mine.
The sheets are too warm, the air thick with the scent of salt and something richer. My skin prickles with it, with the weight of his gaze even in the dark. I shift, the mattress dipping beneath me, and his arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back against the solid heat of him.
"Can't sleep, karamelka?" His voice is rough, a low rumble against my ear, and I shiver.
"No."
A pause. Then his fingers trace idle circles over my hip, slow and deliberate. "What's wrong?"
I exhale, sharp. "I was just… wondering."
"About?"
My throat tightens. The words feel too big, too fragile, like if I say them wrong, they'll shatter. "If I'm still… her. The woman you wanted."
His body goes still behind me. Not the stillness of sleep, but the kind that comes before a storm, the moment before the lightning strikes. His breath is warm against my neck, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he speaks.
"Karamelka."
Just that. Just my nickname, wrapped in that dark, possessive growl of his. But it's enough to make my pulse jump, my nipples tightening beneath the thin cotton of my nightgown.
"You think I don't want you?" His hand slides up, fingers splaying over my ribs, just beneath the swell of my breast. "You will always be the woman I want."
I swallow. "I'm softer now. Bigger. My body?—"
"Is perfect." His teeth graze my shoulder, sharp enough to make me gasp. "Everything about you. Every drop of milk that leaks from these perfect fucking tits." His palm cups me, thumb brushing over the damp fabric clinging to my nipple. "You think I don't worship this?"
A whimper escapes me, my back arching into his touch. His other hand slides down, fingers pressing against the heat between my thighs, and I'm already wet, already aching for him.
"Words won't do." His voice is a command, a promise. "Let me show you."
He rolls me onto my back, his body looming over mine in the dark. The nightgown is gone in one swift motion, torn away like it never existed. His mouth finds my breast, hot and hungry, and I cry out as he latches on, the pull of his lips sending a jolt straight to my core.
God, the way he drinks from me. Like I'm the only thing keeping him alive. Like my milk is the sweetest nectar he's ever tasted. His tongue swirls around my nipple, his free hand kneading my other breast, fingers pinching just hard enough to make me squirm.
"So full," he murmurs against my skin, his breath hot. "My perfect wife."
The words send a fresh rush of wetness between my thighs, my hips lifting off the bed without my permission. His chuckle is dark, knowing, as he switches to my other breast, his fingers sliding down to tease my slit.
"Look at you," he growls. "Dripping for me already."
"Egor…"
His teeth scrape my nipple, just shy of pain. "You want my cock, karamelka? You want me to fuck you until you can't walk?"
"Yes."
His laugh is a dark, filthy thing. "Not yet." His fingers slide inside me, curling just right, and I gasp, my body clenching around him. "First, I want to make you come."
He sucks and fingers me until my thighs are trembling, until I'm nothing but a whimpering mess beneath him.
I finally shatter, my body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.
For a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of my ragged breathing, the scent of sex and sweat and us filling the room.
Then his lips find my ear again, his voice a dark promise.
"We're not done yet. Because it's going to be a long night."
I whimper.
Because I know he means it.