Epilogue

Leonid

A Kuznetsov Christmas

T he smell of turkey hits me the moment I step into the kitchen. One week since our wedding in the Alps, and my house looks like Christmas threw up everywhere. Tinsel, lights, and enough decorations to make the Rockefeller Center jealous. Never thought I'd see the day when the Kuznetsov mansion would look like a Hallmark movie set.

" Bozhe moy, " Maksim groans from his perch on the counter, watching Dmitry baste what has to be the biggest turkey I've ever seen. "This is so... American. Next thing you know, we'll be singing carols and wearing matching sweaters."

"We are wearing matching sweaters," I point out, tugging at the red monstrosity Clara insisted on. "And you're still here because...?"

"Where else would I go?" He grins, swiping a cookie from the cooling rack. "Besides, someone needs to document the mighty Pakhan 's first American Christmas."

Clara whirls around, flour dusting her cheek, brandishing a wooden spoon. "Touch another cookie, and you'll be celebrating New Year's in the hospital."

"Such violence," Maksim clutches his chest dramatically. "And here I thought Kayla was the scary one. Speaking of—"

"She's in California with her family," Clara cuts him off, her expression softening slightly. "Everyone deserves to be home for Christmas."

Home .

The word hits differently now. A week ago, this place was just a house. Secure. Fortified. Functional. Now there are stockings hanging from the fireplace, each hand-picked by Elijah. Even Pavel the peacock has a tiny one.

A piercing screech from outside makes Maksim jump, nearly dropping his stolen cookie.

"Pavel!" Elijah's voice carries from the garden. "Papa! Papa, come quick!"

Papa.

My heart still stops every time he says it. Started three days ago, over breakfast. I'd been checking security reports on my phone when he'd simply said, "Papa, can you pass the syrup?" Like he hadn't just demolished every wall I'd ever built. I'd had to leave the room, blame it on an urgent call.

Because Leonid fucking Kuznetsov doesn't cry over a word.

I find him pressed against the garden doors, nose leaving smudges on the glass. "The turkey must have been Pavel's friend," he says solemnly, eyes wide with concern. "He sounds so sad."

Something in my chest cracks open.

I scoop him up, settling him on my hip with practiced ease now. "Want to know a secret, malish ?" I press a kiss to his curls. "Pavel's not sad. He's excited. He's never had so many people to show off for at Christmas."

"Really?" He pulls back, studying my face with that intense focus he gets sometimes. Pure Clara.

"Really." I catch my wife's reflection in the glass, watching us. Her eyes are suspiciously bright, but before I can comment, she blinks rapidly and turns back to her baking.

"Marina!" Elijah suddenly squirms in my arms, pointing outside where my niece is leading our resident giant around the garden. "Uncle Mysh, what's on your head?"

Mysh—all six-foot-eight of lethal muscle—adjusts his reindeer antlers with dignity. "Your cousin is very persuasive," he rumbles, while Marina beams up at him.

"Papa, can I go show Marina the new swing?" Elijah asks, already wiggling to get down.

I set Elijah down, watching him race out to his cousin. Ludis steps aside to let the children pass, his hand automatically steadying Marina as she bounds past. The softness in his expression as he watches her is still jarring to see on my twin's face.

"You're going soft, boss," Maksim murmurs next to me, but there's no bite in it. He's watching the children too, something wistful in his expression.

"Says the man who spent three hours setting up the Christmas tree because 'it had to be perfect for the little prince,'" I reply drily.

Maksim snorts, his gaze still lingering on the kids. "Someone had to step in. You’d have just thrown lights on it and called it done."

Before I can retort, a loud clang echoes from the kitchen. The unmistakable crash of pans hitting the floor.

"Sounds like your queen is calling," he teases, deftly pivoting the conversation away from himself.

In the kitchen, Clara stands at the center, sleeves rolled up, with Dmitry at her side, the two of them a surprisingly synchronized team.

"No, Galina," Clara says, her tone calm but firm as she intercepts the older woman with a ladle mid-step. "I’ve got it under control. Why don’t you check on the table instead?"

Galina hesitates, clearly wanting to protest, but Clara’s faint smile softens the command. "Trust me," she adds quietly. "We’ll be fine."

Galina relents, backing away with a faint grumble, and Dmitry smirks as he balances a massive tray of ingredients on one arm.

"You run a tight ship," he remarks, glancing at Clara as he adjusts a cutting board.

"Someone has to," she replies, brushing flour off her hands. Her eyes flick briefly toward the doorway, where Maksim and I linger, before she calls out, "If you’re going to hover, make yourselves useful—or leave."

Maksim nudges me, already retreating with a mock salute. "Told you. Line of fire."

I don’t move right away.

I stand by the door frame, looking at My zhyeh-NA. my wife .

She’s beautiful , I watch her as she blows a strand of her hair from her face, smudging her cheek with a streak of flour as she pushes a tray toward Dmitry.

The kitchen light catches on the faint pink flush at her temples, the way her lips press together in concentration as she shifts her focus to the stovetop.

She’s perfect . Even in the chaos, she looks… radiant.

She glances up suddenly, and her blue eyes lock with mine. Her expression softens, a smile tugging at her lips. It’s quick, almost shy, but enough to make me weak on my fucking knee.

I can’t help the smile tugging at my own lips as Elijah’s voice cuts through the moment. "Papa! Grandpa is here! And he’s got me a big present!"

Elijah barrels toward me, grabbing my hand and pulling with all the determination his little body can muster. “Come on! You have to see!”

He drags me into the dining room, where Maxwell Caldwell stands with Mitch at his side. Maxwell looks smaller now, the weight of years etched into his hunched shoulders, but there’s something steady in the way he holds himself.

I stop in front of him, meeting his wary eyes. For a moment, neither of us moves, the space between us thick with unspoken words. Then, slowly, I step forward and wrap an arm around him in a firm hug.

Maxwell stiffens, caught off guard, but after a beat, I feel his body soften. He hesitates, then lifts his hand and pats my shoulder—a small but deliberate gesture. Forgiveness. Acceptance.

Elijah bounces on his heels beside us, oblivious to the gravity of the moment. "Papa, look! Grandpa brought me this! " He hoists a brightly wrapped box, his excitement breaking the tension like a warm breeze.

In the background, Galina fusses over the place settings, her hands adjusting already-perfect linens while Ivan lingers near the door, his sharp gaze scanning the room.

I glance around, taking it all in. The long table stretches beneath crystal chandeliers, their soft light casting a golden glow over evergreen centerpieces and polished silverware. It’s strange, seeing them all here. Together.

Family. The word still feels foreign on my tongue, but tonight, it feels just right.

Later, after too much food and several bottles of wine, Maxwell clears his throat. The conversation dies down, and something in his expression makes me reach for Clara's hand under the table.

"I've never been good at this," he starts, his voice rough. "Being a father. Making the right choices. But Clara—" He looks at my wife, and I feel her grip tighten. "You've always had an Onyx Heart. Strong. Unbreakable. Even when I wasn't there to see it."

Clara's breath hitches, and I pull her closer, feeling her tremble against my side. Around us, our mismatched family—Russian and American, blood and chosen—sits in understanding silence.

"To the Onyx Heart," Ludis raises his glass, and for once, there's no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

"To seem-YA, family." I add, and I mean it.

The End