Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Do you remember saying that in your sleep once?” she murmurs, a soft smile on her lips.
“It’s the truth,” I tell her.
“I thought I had to fight to stay on my own,” she whispers. “I genuinely believed that, but I can’t. It’s like you’ve melted me. Go ahead. Call me a cornball.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you,” I tell her with a smirk.
“Oh, so that’s the only reason you won’t call me one, huh?”
“Keep going,” I say.
“I was ice,” she replies. “Not happy, but not sad either, but you run too hot for me.”
When I kiss her, I somehow know everything will work out. We’ll never forget this moment, which was the point when our lives truly began. We’ll look back in the years to come when we’re happy and surrounded by loved ones and smile.
“I love you,” I say when she pushes against me, driving me back to the couch.
“I love you too.” She breathes passionately, getting hot and heavy.
She said I melt her. She does the same to me. Our bodies fuse. I forget every terrible thing that ever happened to me. All that exists is Lia.
EPILOGUE
DAHLIA
Two Weeks Later
Istand on the stepladder, adding minor details to the mural on the wall. Ania wanted the wall in her studio’s changing area livened up, so I offered to put something there. She wants the whole family, as she calls it—Mikhail, Dimitri, me, and well, that’s it. It’s all we need. I’ve got a big smile on my face as I add flourishes to Ania’s hair.
From behind me, she says, “Should you be up there?”
I turn, smiling down at her. “I’m, like, two weeks pregnant,” I say.
“She’s right, you know.”
My man’s voice makes nerves dance all over me. Ever since we first made love in the craziness after the party, we’ve been all over each other. I never knew how good it would feel, how right, like we were slotting into place exactly where we belonged. He’s wearing his gym gear, his arms thick, steam rising from him as he stands at the bottom of the ladder.
Last night, when I told him what the test said, his smile was even bigger than when I said yes to his proposal. I never knew how much having a baby would make me smile, but I can’t stop. I feel drunk on life, on love.
It’s like anything’s possible until I think about Oleg’s ultimatum. We might have to fight a war for our marriage and our future family. Slowly, I climb from the ladder. My man reaches up on the last couple of rungs, lifting me down and holding me easily in his arms. I grin and dot his nose with paint.
“Trying to start a fight?” he says, then puts me down and hugs me, lowering his voice. “Are you okay?”
“Just… thinking.”
He sighs. “I know. Me too.”
The possible war has been hanging over us.
“Whatever happens, I’m sticking by your side,” he says, then cuts off when his cell phone rings. He takes it out. “It’s Oleg.”
“Oh, God,” I mutter, smoothing my hands over my belly as if I don’t want my baby to hear.
“Loudspeaker, my Bratva queen?” he says with a smirk because even now, he loves teasing me with that Q-word.
“No, yes, no… yes. Final answer.”
“Yes?” His smirk widens.
“Yes!”
He answers the phone. “Oleg.”
EPILOGUE
DIMITRI
Seven Years Later
“Oh, haven’t you got your hands full?” a kind-looking elderly woman says as I walk by her in the park.
I grin. I’ve got our toddler Anya strapped to my chest. The twins—Roman and Kyra—are in the stroller, and our oldest, Stefan, walks by my side. He’s tall for his age, holding my hand with a smile that reminds me so much of his mother.
“He’s a showoff, huh?” Stefan says, making the lady chuckle.
I laugh and ruffle his hair. “You’re Mr. Popular, kid.”
He beams up at me. “I like making people laugh.”
“Never lose that,” I tell him.
We walk to the other end of the park, across the street, and into the gallery. It’s lunchtime, a few people milling around. A couple of college students are having an art debate.
“Daddy, can I walk around?” Stefan asks.
“Yes, but you know the rules.”
Stefan has a no-apps cell phone, meaning he can call me but can’t access the internet or any apps. As he walks around the gallery past his mother’s work, which is more mature than it once was but still brimming with the same raw talent, I push the stroller to the back office.
My wife sits at the window, sketching something from across the street. She turns when she hears me. She’s wearing a baggy shirt, the sleeves rolled up, with flecks of paint. Her hair is gorgeously messy. As she stands, her curvy body stirs things in me. We’re in parenting mode right now. I have to save this until we’re alone later.