Epilogue
Six Months Later
Anna (Lidiya) POV
The sun hits hot and beautiful, and I wonder how this ended up being my life. The view is out of this world. Turquoise seas, clear blue skies, and luxury all around the harbour.
“Wife,” Damien murmurs, sitting down next to me, as I tan myself on board the superyacht that has been through more drama than a yacht has any right to.
“Husband,” I say back with a smile.
“Your grandfather is here on his way out to sea.” I sit up and slip my sunglasses into my hair. Monaco glitters like it’s been polished for me. Six months ago, I was counting coins. Now I’m counting white sails.
“Is he alone?” I ask.
“Two men.” Damien’s mouth quirks. “Polite ones.”
“True to form,” I say, and rise. The deck is warm under my bare feet. I smooth the silk wrap at my hips and adjust the emerald-and-diamond ring on my finger.
The tender hums alongside, and the crew drop the gangway. Stanislav comes aboard the way he did everything else in my life—unexpectedly and with quiet force. White linen, pale eyes, and an expression I’ve learnt is his version of soft.
“Dedushka,” I say, the word careful in my mouth. It fits now. It didn’t at first.
He stops a step away and inclines his head. “Anna.”
We don’t do hugs. We do boundaries. Mine, set in stone. His, respected to the letter.
He takes a small leather case from his man and holds it out. “For you.”
I take it. Inside is a locket. Gold, oval, simple.
I press the clasp, and it opens on a tiny photograph of a girl with a blue bow in her hair and a woman with my mouth.
Stasia. The ache that used to drown me doesn’t, not anymore.
It moves through me like a tide and recedes, leaving something gentler behind.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I know you want news on your father. I’ve searched for years. Stasia never revealed his name, even under pressure.”
Even under pressure. I don’t want to think what that was. “I know you’ll keep looking.”
He nods and glances at Damien several feet away. “You are happy.”
“Very.”
“I don’t like him,” he growls, but it’s like a teddy bear growl.
I snort. “He doesn’t like you either.”
That brings a smile to his face. “Mutual clarity,” he says, eyes bright with mischief that doesn’t belong on a man with that much history in his bones.
“Exactly,” I say, and close the locket with a soft click. I feel the ghost-weight of Stasia’s mouth like mine in that tiny photo, and for the first time, it doesn’t hollow me out. It fills me.
He scans the deck the way he scans every room—counting exits, measuring distances, cataloguing faces.
He does it without pretence, the way other men breathe.
Damien stands near the rail, speaking to our captain in a low tone, hand loose at his side, rings catching the light.
He glances over—quick, direct—and the pulse under my skin answers like he lit a fuse.
“He suits you.”
“He belongs,” I reply, and twist the ring once because it settles some jumpy part of me every time I touch it. “Everything I keep now has to earn its place.”
His mouth lifts. “And what is he earning?”
“My peace,” I say simply. “He holds it when I forget how.”
“And that is how it should be, myshka.”
Tears prick my eyes suddenly, and I step forward, embracing him for the first time.
Surprised, he hesitates, but then crushes me to him.
“We don’t make a habit of this,” I say, voice low as I pull back.
“No,” he agrees, eyes crinkling.
Damien comes over because I look at him, and that’s all it takes. His hand finds mine with the unshowy certainty of a man who’s already decided the answer to every question that begins with us.
“Stanislav,” he says, polite like a blade with a ribbon tied round the hilt.
“Voronov,” Stanislav returns, equally polite. Equally edged.
“Tea?” I offer, because civility is a weapon too.
“Another time,” Dedushka says. “The harbour gossips when I sit still.” He glances at our captain, at the crew spaced just so, at the quiet choreography of security that Damien insists on, and I accept because I like having a pulse. “Keep her safe.”
“Always,” Damien says, simple as a fact. “You don’t ever have to worry about that.”
“Good boy,” he murmurs, and I see Damien’s eyes narrow briefly before he just accepts it.
Dedushka steps back. His men open the gap the way the tide moves around a rock. He lifts a hand to me—oddly tender for a man who slit a throat in front of me like it was just another day—and then he’s gone down the gangway, white linen a flag that refuses to surrender.
“Tea another time then,” I murmur.
“Translation: he’s not giving anyone a clear shot,” Damien says, eyes on the tender as it peels away. “I don’t hate that about him.”
“You hate everything about him.”
“I hate what he makes you feel.” He turns to me fully. Sea wind lifts the ends of his hair and flashes silver at his ear. “And I hate that he called me good boy.”
I grin despite myself. “You prefer bad man.”
“I prefer husband.”
Heat moves through me low and lazy. “Convenient. I prefer that too.”
He catches my left hand, thumbs the emerald. “You okay?”
“Yes. Surprisingly, yes.”
“Good.” His mouth grazes mine, a kiss that tastes like salt and a promise I already believe. “We sail at noon. South. Water helps.”
“It does.” I glance at Monaco glittering like a tiara I can take or leave. “London feels like a fever dream. Kebab shops and dead bolts and the Ashlar.” I tilt my head and smile at him. “And a barracuda who kept turning up on Fridays.”
He huffs. “That barracuda remembers every coin you counted.”
“I know. He bought my bedsit.”
“I bought you the building.”
“And gave me the chance to make things right for the tenants. The progress is slow, but the plumbing is almost redone.”
He kisses my hand. “You are the perfect landlord.”
“Only thanks to you.”
“Does that mean you are finally not sore about what I did anymore?” he asks with a twinkle in his eyes that makes me laugh.
“Oh, I got over that a while ago. I was just letting you sweat.”
“Savage,” he murmurs.
“I learned from the best.”
He sweeps me off my feet and carries me to the onboard jacuzzi and drops me lightly in, silk wrap and all, before he joins me, soaking his tee and shorts through.
Warm bubbles fizz up my thighs and lick at the silk clinging to my skin. He crowds me without apology, water beading on ink and muscle, blue eyes bright with that mix of pride and hunger I’ve come to crave.
“You’re impossible,” I murmur, swiping water from his jaw. “This was dry-clean only.”
“I’ll buy you ten more,” he says, matter-of-fact, palms spreading over my hips under the water.
I trail a wet finger down the column of his throat and over the ink at his chest. The familiarity of the lines calms me in a way no therapy app ever could. Battlefields and bed. That’s our rhythm. Violence and breakfast. Blood and bubbles. Somehow it adds up to peace.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, thumbs drawing lazy circles that make concentration expensive.
“That I used to measure days in coins. Now I measure them in exits and tides.” I tip my head, considering. “And that I’m… fine. I didn’t think I would be. But I am.”
He breathes out, like I’ve lifted something off his ribs. “Good.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Never.” He smirks. “Okay, always.”
“And that is what I love about you,” I murmur against his sexy mouth.
“I love you too, Anna. I never thought I was capable. You showed me otherwise.”
“We learn from each other.”
“Always,” he says and then makes me forget all of the names, even as the water sloshes over the side of the hot tub.