28. Cora
28
CORA
Two months later…
T here’s no soft hum of an orchestra, no whispered excitement from a crowd, no grand floral arrangements scenting the air with roses.
Instead, the air crackles with tension, with power.
Dangerous men in perfectly tailored suits stand like statues, watching the ceremony with sharp eyes and unreadable expressions. Bratva leaders, allies, killers. All in awe of my husband. All travelled to Europe to be here for this.
I stand in the center of it all, my fingers tight around Ivan’s.
I wear white.
Ivan wears a gun.
It sits against his hip, visible beneath the sharp cut of his suit, a silent reminder that this is not a fairy tale.
Ivan’s grip on my hand is firm, unshakable. When he speaks, his voice is absolute.
"I take you as mine. Now and always."
The words settle deep inside me, curling warm and sharp in my chest.
I hold his gaze, let him see everything I am.
"And I take you as mine."
His jaw flexes slightly, like he’s restraining the urge to drag me against him, to seal this moment with something far more primal than words.
The moment holds a second too long, the air thick between us, before someone ruins it.
“This is the most boring wedding I’ve ever been to.”
Maxim.
I exhale a slow breath before turning my head to glare at him. He stands off to the side, looking entirely unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest.
“Where’s the champagne? Where’s the over-the-top cake? I mean, seriously. Where’s the gunfights?”
Elena smacks his arm. “You’re literally at a wedding for the Bratva. Shut up before someone makes you disappear.”
Maxim snorts. “I’d like to see them try.”
“Be careful, Maxim.” Veronica smirks from beside Elena, her eyes glittering. “We both know you just want the cake all to yourself.”
Maxim huffs, unbothered. “I do like cake.”
Ivan sighs, rubbing his temple like he’s regretting his entire inner circle.
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh.
I barely have time to process the moment before Ivan takes my hand and leads me away from the crowd.
The voices of our guests fade behind us, lost in the vast halls of the estate. I don’t ask where we’re going at first, content in the warmth of his palm against mine, the unwavering certainty of his presence.
But curiosity tugs at me.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we step into the cool night air. The scent of the ocean lingers in the breeze, mixing with the distant scent of cigar smoke and the sharp tang of leather from his suit.
He doesn’t stop walking.
His grip tightens just slightly, just enough to remind me—he will never let go.
He turns his head, blue eyes cutting through the darkness like a promise.
"Anywhere you want, printsessa."
I step onto the stone terrace, the tiles warm beneath my bare feet. The villa is perched high above the sea, the coastline stretching far below us, a private paradise tucked away from the rest of the world.
Elena and Veronica lounge beneath a white umbrella, their pregnant bellies more visible now, round and prominent, their due dates creeping closer.
Veronica’s back is arched slightly, one hand resting on her stomach as she stretches out in a cushioned chair, sunglasses perched on her nose.
“I swear, this baby is going to be a fighter,” she groans, shifting in her seat. “She kicks like she’s training for an MMA title.”
Elena smirks, her own hand resting over her belly. “God help us all.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I move across the terrace, letting their voices fade into the background.
I can feel his presence before I even see him.
I turn, my gaze catching on Ivan standing near the edge of the balcony, his arms crossed over his chest, his broad shoulders relaxed in the kind of way they never used to be.
His sharp blue eyes are locked onto me.
I pad across the stone toward him, my heartbeat steady, sure. I know that look. It isn’t unreadable at all.
I press a hand to his solid chest, feeling the warmth beneath my palm.
“Like what you see?” he asks.
His lips curve slightly, a slow, knowing smirk.
“What about me?” I ask.
His hand lifts, his fingers brushing over the curve of my jaw, slow, deliberate. His thumb drags softly over my lower lip, like he’s reminding himself he can.
His voice is low, rough, full of promise.
“I own what I see.”
He doesn’t make some grand declaration about his need to dote on me, to take care of me. But I already see it all the time.
The way he pulls out my chair before I can sit.
The way he makes sure I eat before he does.
The way he watches me, always, like he’s waiting for a reason to carry me straight to bed and make me rest.
And, apparently, the way he refuses to let me walk when we go down to the beach.
His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me effortlessly off the ground.
I let out a startled laugh, my hands clutching his shoulders.
"Ivan, I can walk."
He doesn’t even break stride.
"You’re not lifting a damn thing, printsessa."
I narrow my eyes, but he’s completely unbothered, carrying me as if I weigh nothing, his grip unrelenting.
"I’m pregnant, Ivan, not made of crystal."
His smirk is as lazy as it is infuriating.
"Same thing."
I huff, but secretly, I don’t mind. The truth is, I like it—being cared for like this, being wanted so fiercely that he can’t help but show it in every action, every touch, every little thing he does.
When he finally sets me down, it’s not just anywhere—it’s in his lap.
I try to move, but his arms cage me in, his heat solid and immovable behind me.
"Ivan—"
"Stay."
It’s not a request.
It never is.
I sigh but settle against him, letting myself sink into the warmth of his body, the familiar strength of his arms wrapped around me.
His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against my hip as we watch the sun sink into the ocean.
His lips brush softly against my temple, his breath warm against my skin.
I tilt my head, my fingers skimming his forearm, tracing over the scars there, the proof of everything we’ve been through.
And then, he kisses me.
His lips graze my jaw, my throat, making me shiver.
"You’re mine to spoil."
For so long, I believed peace was a lie. That safety was temporary, that love was just another word for vulnerability, for losing control, for handing someone the power to break me.
And yet, here I am. Whole. Safe. Loved.
I think about the man I met all those months ago—cold, relentless, untouchable. And I think about the man standing before me now—just as dangerous, just as formidable, but different now. Not soft. Not really.
Just soft for me.