Epilogue
WREN
Five years later…
Five years ago, I walked into this house shaking, certain I'd be dead by morning.
Now I'm eight months pregnant, there's frosting in my hair courtesy of a four-year-old with my mother's smile and Maxim's complete lack of impulse control, and the most dangerous man on the eastern seaboard is across the room letting that same four-year-old put a paper crown on his head.
Life's funny like that.
"Papa, you have to sit still," Mila announces, her little hands pressing the crooked gold crown onto Lev's dark-blond hair.
She's bossy as hell, which tracks considering whose kid she is.
All of theirs, technically, but she got Lev's stare and Kostya's stubborn refusal to back down, so good luck to her future teachers.
Lev doesn't move. Just sits there on the couch, six-foot-six of ruthless authority letting a preschooler decorate him like a craft project, and the look on his face—deadly serious, like this is a military briefing—makes my chest ache in the best way.
"Perfect," Mila declares, then bolts toward the kitchen where my mother is chasing our two-year-old son away from the cake with the patient determination of a woman who's seen worse.
She was shocked at first—three stepbrothers, Wren, really?
—but that lasted about five minutes after she saw the way they looked at me.
The way they still look at me. Now she's here every other weekend, spoiling the kids rotten and pretending she doesn't see when Kostya sneaks them extra cookies before dinner.
"Grandma, Nik ate the flowers!"
"He did not—Nikolai, spit that out right now."
Maxim laughs from the doorway, arms crossed, watching the chaos like it's his favorite show. "Your mother's a natural."
"She's in her element," I say, leaning against the counter because my back's killing me and this baby's using my bladder as a trampoline. "You're just relieved someone else is on frosting duty."
"Solnyshko, I was born for frosting duty." He winks, then his gaze drops to my belly, and the playfulness softens into something that still catches me off guard. "You good?"
"I'm huge and my feet hurt and I'm so happy I could cry. So yeah. Good."
Before he can answer, Kostya appears behind me, one massive hand settling on the curve of my stomach like he's checking inventory. "You've been on your feet too long."
"I've been standing for ten minutes."
"Too long."
I lean back into him anyway because I'm not an idiot, and his chest is warm and solid and he smells like woodsmoke and coffee. His thumb strokes once over my belly, and the baby kicks right into his palm. His mouth curves—barely, but I see it.
Lev stands, Mila's crown still perched on his head, and crosses to me in three strides. Doesn't say anything. Just cups my face with both hands and kisses me, slow and possessive, until I forget my feet hurt.
When he pulls back, his brown eyes hold mine. "Love you."
"Moya," he adds, quieter, and I feel it everywhere.
Kostya's hand tightens on my hip. "Love you, kotyonok."
Maxim grins, leaning in to kiss my temple. "We keeping her?"
"Forever," I say, and I mean it.
From the kitchen, Mila shrieks with laughter, my mother's voice rising in mock exasperation, and Nik toddles into the room with frosting smeared across his cheek like war paint.
This. This chaos, this love, this family I'd have run from once and now can't imagine leaving.
I wouldn't trade it for anything.