35. Via
VIA
The morning sun is a warm, bright gold that cuts through the sheer white curtains, tracing long, lazy lines of light across the plush rug.
I try to roll over, but I’m currently pinned under approximately two hundred and fifty pounds of warm, solid Russian Mafia boss.
Ilya’s massive arm is wrapped securely around my waist, his thick fingers splayed flat over the heavy, round curve of my eight-month pregnant belly.
His chin is tucked deep into the crook of my neck, his breath hot and rhythmic against my skin, sending a steady, pleasant shiver down my spine.
I let out a soft, amused sigh, my fingers tracing the thick, scarred forearm locking me in place. "Ilya. Let go. I need to pee."
He doesn't open his eyes. Instead, his grip tightens, pulling me even closer against his bare chest until my back is pressed flat against his heartbeat. He drops a slow, lazy kiss to my shoulder, his mouth sliding up the column of my neck to find the sensitive spot right behind my ear. "No."
"I’m serious, you giant clinger." I shift my hips, trying to find some leverage, but my center of gravity is completely gone these days. "I look like an elegant beach ball, my back is killing me, and your child is currently using my bladder as a trampoline. Move."
He lets out a low, grumpy rumble in his throat, finally blinking his dark eyes open.
The obsidian pupils are soft in the morning light, carrying none of the cold, terrifying blankness of the Pakhan.
He leans over me, his hand sliding down to cup the lower curve of my stomach, his face resting right against the silk of my nightgown. "She’s kicking."
"She’s been kicking since five in the morning," I say, my hand sliding into his dark, messy hair. "Probably because she inherited your complete lack of respect for sleeping schedules. Now, let me up."
He slowly rolls off me, his movements slightly stiff as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
I watch him stand. He walks to the bathroom, his left leg carrying a slight, permanent limp, a reminder of the shipyard steel that crushed his bone.
It doesn't make him look weak. If anything, the slow, rolling hitch in his stride makes him look even more dangerous, like a scarred timber wolf that survived the trap and grew meaner because of it.
He is more possessive today than he was when he had me locked in the north wing.
If I take a step toward the garden, there are three sweepers checking the grass.
If I go to the kitchen, Yara has to verify the safety seals on the milk.
He rebuilt the estate on a massive scale.
The walls are twice as thick, the security gates are reinforced with military-grade titanium, and the guard detail has been tripled.
But inside these walls, the Pakhan has turned into a ridiculously clingy husband who refuses to sleep unless my head is resting on his chest.
I slide out of bed, my feet sinking into the warm rug as I stretch my aching lower back. "Is the coffee actually organic today, or did you make the guards check the beans for listening devices again?"
Ilya steps out of the bathroom, a clean white towel slung over his broad, scarred shoulders. "The distributor in Colombia was audited. I wanted to be sure."
"You're a maniac," I say, walking past him to wash my face.
"I’m thorough," he corrects, his hand coming to rest on my hip, his thumb tracing the bone with a light, possessive pressure that tells me he’s not letting me out of this room without a struggle.
The hallway of the new estate is bright, the dark mahogany of the old house replaced with light oak, tall, arched windows, and cream-colored plaster that lets the sunshine flood the corridors.
Ekaterina is standing in the center of the conservatory, her easel set up near a massive bed of yellow primroses.
She’s wearing a paint-splattered white apron, her hair tied up in a messy bun, a bright, genuine smile lighting up her face as she looks up from her canvas.
"Via! Look at the lace detail. Yara said it was too traditional, but I think the emerald border is perfect. "
I walk closer, leaning my weight against the stone planter as I look at her sketch.
It’s my wedding dress, the new one we’ve been designing for three weeks.
No white lace. No traditional cathedral trains.
It’s a simple, elegant emerald-green silk gown with a high waist that drapes softly over my round belly.
"It’s beautiful, Ekaterina," I say, my hand touching the canvas. "My father would have loved the green."
"He would have," she says, her shoulder bumping against mine. "And Ilya is going to look like he’s about to cry when he sees you."
"Your brother doesn't cry," I say, letting out a dry laugh. "His tear ducts were probably removed by the Bratva when he turned ten."
"You’re right." Ekaterina laughs heartily.
A sudden, warm ache spreads through my chest, my hand rising to trace the small, pale scar on my bottom lip.
The double doors of the conservatory swing open, and Yara enters, carrying a silver tray with a steaming mug of ginger tea.
She’s wearing her clean white apron, her kind face tensing with her usual motherly authority.
"The dressmaker is waiting in the blue room, Via.
We have thirty minutes before the captains arrive for the rehearsal dinner. "
"Excellent," I say, reaching for the tea. "Let’s get this over with before my husband decides the dressmaker is a spy."
Ilya steps into the conservatory from the courtyard, his black coat hanging open, his boots thudding softly as he walks toward me. He doesn't look at Yara, and he doesn't look at the sketches. His eyes are fixed on my face, his jaw tight. "The dressmaker was checked at the outer gate. She’s clear."
"Of course she’s clear," I say, tossing my hands up. "She’s a sixty-year-old woman who makes lace veils, Ilya. What did you think she was hiding in her sewing kit? A grenade?"
"They make small ones," he growls, his hand wrapping around my waist, pulling my back against his chest. "You’re staying in this wing."
"I need to go to the blue room for the fitting," I say, turning in his arms to look up into his stubborn face. "It’s across the hall. It’s literally twenty steps."
"I’ll carry you," he says.
"You will not carry me!" I laugh, my fingers digging into the wool of his sweater. "I’m sixty pounds heavier than I was in the spring, and you have a limp, you stubborn giant. Let go."
"No," he says, his chin resting on my head, his arms locking around my waist.
Ekaterina lets out a loud, dramatic groan, throwing her paintbrush into the jar of water. "Ilya, let her go! The wedding is tomorrow! If she doesn't finish the fitting, she’s going to have to get married in one of your ugly black sweaters!"
Yara steps between us, her hand coming to rest on Ilya’s forearm, her grip firm and carrying twenty years of housekeeper authority. "Let the girl go, Ilya. You’ve been holding her since yesterday. She needs to breathe."
Ilya grumbles, a low, unhappy rumble in his chest, but he slowly loosens his grip, his hands staying on my hips as I step back. He looks like a dog whose favorite toy has been taken away, his dark eyes scanning my face with a quiet, obsessive intensity.
"Ten minutes," he growls.
"Fifteen," I counter, my sassy smirk returning to my lips as I walk toward the door. "And if you check the security camera in the blue room, I’m naming the baby Kumquat."
Ilya’s jaw clenches, a faint, dark amusement flickering in his eyes as he watches me walk out.
The wedding day is quiet. Just how I wanted.
There are no grand cathedrals. There are no incense clouds, no five-hundred-person guest lists, and no armed enforcers standing near the altar. We are standing in the walled garden of the estate, the afternoon sun a soft, golden warmth that lights up the red brick walls and the yellow primroses.
Ekaterina is standing to my right wearing a simple cream dress, her eyes bright with tears. Yara and Sasha are sitting on the front bench next to Lev, who is dressed in a clean black suit, his posture proud.
The priest is an old, quiet man from the southern chapel, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he reads the vows.
I’m wearing the emerald-green silk dress, the fabric draping softly over my round belly, my gold hair falling over my shoulders in loose, polished waves. I don't have a veil. I don't want to hide my face from him today.
Ilya stands across from me. He’s wearing a simple, tailored black suit, his dark hair combed back, his chest expanding as he takes a slow, steady breath. He’s looking at me.
"I, Ilya Kovalevskii," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries a raw, profound reverence that makes my eyes sting.
"Take you, Viallentinka, for the rest of my life.
I have spent thirty years in the dark, but you...
you are my light. I will protect you. I will cherish you.
and I will burn this entire city to ash before I let anyone take you from my hand. "
The tears finally spill over, running down my cheeks in a warm, clean rush. I reach up, my small hands cupping his massive, scarred jaw, my thumbs tracing his cheekbones.
"I, Viallentinka Kovalevskiia," I say, my voice steady, my gaze holding his, "take you, Ilya. You are my monster. You’re violent, you’re grumpy, and you’re a terrible liar. But you are the only safe place I have left in this world. I’m done running. I’m yours. For the rest of my life."
The priest smiles, his hand rising to bless us. "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Ilya doesn't wait for the cue.
He leans down, his large hands wrapping around my waist, and seals his lips over mine in a deep, slow, and incredibly sweet kiss. It is pure, raw devotion, our hearts hitting our ribs in perfect synchronization in the quiet garden.
The applause from Ekaterina, Sasha, and Yara is loud, but it feels distant, like the wind in the trees.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark, heavy, and completely filled with a soft, beautiful warmth that tells me the war is finally over. He reaches down, his callused thumb wiping the tears from my cheeks, his smile small, quiet, and entirely real.
"You're mine, Via," he whispers.
"I know," I say, my head resting flat against his chest, my fingers locking with his.