Chapter 17 – Barbara
The conversation had shifted without me realizing it.
One moment, we were talking about the baby, about his promise to stay, about the impossibility of everything. The next, Kirill was looking at me with an intensity that made my breath catch, and I knew where this was heading.
“We should get married.”
The words hung in the air between us like a grenade with the pin pulled.
I blinked at him, certain I’d misheard. “What?”
“Married.” He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. Like we were discussing dinner plans instead of a lifelong commitment. “You’re pregnant with my child. In my world, that means marriage.”
Panic clawed up my throat. “Kirill….”
“It makes sense.” He was already planning, I could see it in his eyes. The calculations. The logistics. “You need protection. The baby needs legitimacy. Bratva takes care of its own, and marriage makes it official. Makes you—”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper than intended. I stood up from the sofa, needing distance, needing space to breathe. “Just stop.”
He stood too, following me as I moved toward the window. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. Everything was wrong. But I couldn’t say that. Couldn’t explain the terror that seized my chest at the thought of binding myself legally to anyone, even him. Especially him.
“I can’t marry you.” I wrapped my arms around myself, staring out at the manicured gardens without really seeing them. “I’m the daughter of Andrew Davis. I can’t just…I can’t marry you in some dark backroom with Bratva tattoos everywhere and a priest who has blood on his hands.”
The excuse sounded weak even to my own ears, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice.
Kirill moved closer behind me. I could feel his presence, solid and warm and entirely too tempting. “What the fuck are you saying?”
I turned to face him, forcing myself to meet those sharp blue eyes.
“I’m saying we’re from different worlds, Kirill.
You’re Bratva. I’m—” I gestured at the mansion around us, at the wealth and privilege that had never actually protected me from anything.
“I’m this. We can’t just pretend that doesn’t matter. ”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” I moved past him, back to the sofa, needing to sit before my legs gave out. “And even if it didn’t—even if we could somehow make it work—I’m not getting married like that. I won’t.”
He followed, dropping onto the ottoman across from me again. His expression was unreadable. “Like what?”
I sat up straight, gathering what little dignity I had left.
“I’ve dreamed of a wedding since I was nine years old.
” The admission felt childish, but I needed him to understand.
“A beautiful dress. A big wedding. A giant altar. Champagne tower. An obnoxious string quartet and tons of cameras focused on me.”
His eyebrow raised. “Obnoxious?”
“Very obnoxious.” Despite everything, I almost smiled. “The kind that plays string covers of pop songs and thinks they’re being ironic.”
“Barbara….”
“I know it sounds stupid,” I cut him off before he could say whatever practical thing he was planning to say.
“I know we’re talking about a shotgun wedding because I’m pregnant.
I know the circumstances are far from ideal.
But I’ve been dreaming about my wedding day since I was a little girl, and I won’t—” My voice cracked.
“I won’t let Sebastian take that from me too. ”
The silence that followed felt heavy with everything I wasn’t saying. With all the things Sebastian had already stolen from me—my sense of safety, my relationship with my father, my mother’s memory, my freedom.
I wouldn’t let him steal this too. Wouldn’t let the situation he’d created force me into a wedding I didn’t want, in a place I didn’t choose, with traditions that weren’t mine.
Even if the groom was someone I….
I stopped that thought before it could complete itself.
“Okay.” Kirill’s voice was quieter now, softer. “Then we’ll do it your way.”
I looked up, surprised. “What?”
“Your wedding. Your dress. Your obnoxious string quartet.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.”
“But the Bratva….”
“Will deal with it.” He said it with such certainty that I almost believed him. “Vladimir’s old-fashioned about some things, but he’s not unreasonable. If you want a big wedding, we’ll have a big wedding.”
I shook my head, trying to make him see.
“You’re not understanding. We belong to two different worlds, Kirill.
Your world is—” I struggled for words. “It’s dangerous and violent and full of secrets.
My world is society pages and charity galas and maintaining appearances. They don’t mix. We don’t mix.”
“Really?” His smirk was slow, dangerous, and entirely too confident. “What about when our worlds collided in bed?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “That’s not—that’s different.”
“Is it?” He stood, moving around the ottoman to sit beside me on the sofa. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, smell that cedar and smoke scent that had haunted me for weeks. “Because from where I’m sitting, our worlds collided pretty perfectly. Multiple times, if I remember correctly.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to say something cutting and clever that would put distance between us.
But nothing came out. Because he was right, damn him.
There was nothing more perfect in this world than being in Kirill’s arms. Nothing that had ever felt as right as the way we fit together, the way he touched me like I was precious, the way he made me forget everything except the moment we were in.
“I—” I tried again, but words failed me.
He was watching my face, reading every emotion that flickered across it. “So let me ask again.” His voice dropped, going rough in a way that made my stomach flip. “Are you going to agree to marry me, or do I need to try something else?”
I raised my eyebrow, trying to regain some control over this conversation that had completely gotten away from me. “Something else?”
“Something else.” He moved a little closer, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Then his hand came up, cupping my face with a gentleness that made my breath catch.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away, to stop this, to maintain the distance I’d been trying so hard to create.
I didn’t move.
His lips brushed mine, soft and questioning. Not demanding. Not taking. Just offering. Just asking a question that had nothing to do with words and everything to do with the way my heart was racing, the way my hands were already reaching for him before I consciously decided to move.
I kissed him back.
Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t resist the pull any more than I could resist gravity or breathing or any other fundamental force of nature. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, and his arm wrapped around my waist like he’d been waiting for permission.
The kiss deepened, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about different worlds or impossible situations or all the reasons this couldn’t work.
I was only thinking about the way he tasted, the way he held me like I was something breakable and unbreakable all at once, the way everything else faded into background noise when he touched me.
“How long will you take to agree to marry me, princess?” He murmured the words against my lips, and I felt them more than heard them.
Princess. The endearment should’ve annoyed me. Should’ve felt patronizing or dismissive. Instead, it made something warm bloom in my chest.
But I wasn’t ready to give in. Not yet. Not when he hadn’t actually asked properly.
I pulled back just enough to speak, just enough to see his face. “Who did I call when I was bleeding out?” The question came out stronger than I felt. “Who did I think of when I thought I was dying?”
His jaw clenched. I watched the muscle jump, watched something dark and possessive flash through his blue eyes.
“You.” I whispered the answer he already knew. “I called you, Kirill. Not my father. Not my friends. Not 911. You. Because somehow, in the middle of all this chaos, you became the person I trusted most in the world.”
The admission hung between us, raw and honest and terrifying in its vulnerability.
I could see him processing it, see the way his expression shifted from determination to something softer. Something that looked almost like wonder.
“I know you’re still angry about what happened to me,” I continued, my hands still fisted in his shirt, keeping him close. “I know you want to hunt down Sebastian and make him pay. I know you’re probably planning a dozen different ways to protect me that I haven’t even thought of yet.”
“Barbara….”
“But right now, that’s not important.” I met his gaze steadily. “Right now, what’s important is this. Us. Figuring out what we are to each other.”
He moved in again, his lips brushing mine with a gentleness that made my heart ache. We were in the middle of my father’s mansion, in the sitting room where I’d entertained hundreds of guests over the years, where I’d played the perfect daughter and hidden everything that was broken inside me.
And now Kirill was kissing me here, claiming this space, making it ours instead of just mine.
“That still isn’t yes,” he said against my mouth, and I could feel his smile.
I pulled back, raising my eyebrow in challenge. Then I shoved his chest just enough to push him back, creating space between us. “Then ask better.”
His eyes darkened. “Ask better?”
“You heard me.” I crossed my arms, trying to look stern despite the fact that my lips were probably swollen from his kisses and my heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe.
“You don’t just announce we’re getting married like you’re discussing a business transaction.
You don’t just assume I’ll fall in line with whatever plan you’ve made. ”
“What do you want me to do?” There was amusement in his voice now, mixed with genuine curiosity.
“I want you to ask me properly.” I said it like it should be obvious. “On your knee. With a ring. Making it clear that you’re not just doing this because of the baby or because of Bratva tradition or because Vladimir told you to.”
“Vladimir didn’t tell me to propose.”
“But he did tell you to take care of what’s yours, right?” I saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes. “He reminded you that the baby is Bratva bloodline, which means I’m part of that now, whether I want to be or not.”
Kirill didn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny it when we both knew I was right.
“So yes, I want you to ask better.” I softened my voice slightly. “I want you to ask me because you want to, not because you have to. I want to know that this is your choice, not just your obligation.”
He stared at me for a long moment, and I couldn’t read his expression. Couldn’t tell if I’d pushed too far, asked for too much.
Then he smiled. Not a smirk or a half-smile, but a real smile that transformed his entire face and made him look younger, less burdened by whatever darkness he usually carried.
“You want me on my knee?”
“Eventually.” I tried to sound nonchalant. “When you’re ready to actually ask instead of announce.”
“With a ring?”
“A proper one. Not some placeholder or temporary thing. A ring that says you put thought into this, that you know me well enough to choose something I’d actually want to wear.”
“And you want to know it’s my choice, not just my obligation.”
“Yes.” The word came out softer than I intended. More vulnerable.
He leaned forward again, close enough that I could feel his breath against my face.
“Barbara Davis.” His voice was serious now, all humor gone.
“Every choice I’ve made since the moment I saw you in that club has been because I wanted to, not because I had to.
Even the stupid ones. Even the ones that made no logical sense. ”
My breath caught.
“So when I ask you—and I will ask you, properly, on my knee, with a ring that will make you smile—know that it’s because I’m choosing you.
Choosing this. Choosing us.” He pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.
“Even if our worlds don’t make sense together.
Even if it’s complicated and messy and probably a terrible idea. I’m choosing it anyway.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but I blinked them back. “You’re really bad at not proposing while claiming you’re not proposing.”
“One of my many talents.” He pulled me closer, and I let him, tucking my head under his chin and listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“But I’ll wait. I’ll do it properly. When you’re ready.
When I have the ring. When I can promise you that wedding you’ve been dreaming about since you were nine. ”
“Obnoxious string quartet and all?” I mumbled against his chest.
“Obnoxious string quartet and all.”
We sat like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Pretending Sebastian wasn’t still out there. Pretending the blackmail didn’t still hang over my head. Pretending everything was simple instead of impossibly complex.
But eventually, reality crept back in.
Eventually, I’d have to tell him the truth about what Sebastian had on me. Eventually, we’d have to face the fact that his world and my world didn’t just collide—they crashed together in ways that would probably destroy us both.
Eventually.
But not today.
Today, I let myself have this. Have him. Have the possibility that maybe—just maybe—we could make this work.