Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Aria

The cracklingfire warms the interior of the living room where I sit – no, lounge on a chaise built for a king. It seems Ekaterina furnished the Russian home with furniture strong enough to withstand the weight and heft of the Neanderthals she raised. Not that I’m complaining. I quite like that Mikhail and I can snuggle here comfortably. Or, more accurately for the moment, I can snuggle under blankets and enjoy the fire while he massages my feet, which he’s back to doing and I am not complaining.

“I researched all the latest equipment,” he’s telling me, his eyes on me so earnest he looks almost boyish. “The safest bassinet, the safest car seat, the best baby monitors and strollers.” He pauses, his capable hands holding my foot. “Do you know the benefits of breastfeeding?”

I almost laugh out loud. It’s amusing as hell to see the way my monster of a husband has turned into a pile of mush.

“I have, Polina and I were researching the different feeding options.” I look down at my ample breasts. “I mean, mine are big enough…”

He shakes his head. “The volume of breastmilk a lactating mother can produce has nothing to do with the size of your breasts.” He looks momentarily amused. “Though, I have to admit, yours are perfect.”

I smile. “Why, thank you.”

“Oh, God, will you two get a room already?” Polina walks in the room carrying a tray with a large pitcher of water and a plate of something that looks delicious. She’s grinning, though. “And don’t worry about the baby gear. Auntie Polina’s on it.”

Mikhail scowls. “Run anything by me, first. Some of those things are marketing ploys with no actual focus on safety or endurance.”

Polina nestles the tray beside me and pats his head. “You’re so cute when you get all baby growly,” she says. “It’s quite unlike you.”

His scowl deepens. “What did I say about calling me cute?”

She winks at me. “We don’t do baby showers here in Russia,” she explains. “I know they’re common in America, but we consider them to be bad luck.”

I nod. “Ah. Imagine. A Russian superstition!”

She snickers. “Not like Mikhail will let anyone else buy anything for the baby, anyway. But you can’t stop me from buying all the little outfits.” She points to the tray. “Try these. They’re Russian tea cookies and they are so good with tea. I’ll make you pryaniki when you get close to labor. They’re spicy little cookies and supposedly help with the onset of labor.”

Mikhail, predictably, looks concerned. “We have a ways to go.”

“Oh, I know,” she says. “I love how liberally you men use plural pronouns to discuss pregnancy. We’re pregnant. We have a ways to go. You, my friend, do not have any ways to go.”

He dismisses her with a grunt and reaches for my right foot. I lean back and take a cookie. It’s delicious – rich and buttery and a little crumbly. “Yummy,” I say around a mouthful of crumbs. “She’s gorgeous, brilliant, and bakes. You can’t ever marry her off, Mikhail.”

I’m joking, of course, but I don’t miss the look that flashes across Polina’s face.

She quickly recovers. “Fortunately, we don’t have to worry about that anytime soon. We do need to talk about going back to America, though.”

Mikhail nods. “We do.”

Now that things have settled back in America, Mikhail’s been itching to get back home. I love it here in Russia, though. After the controversy and struggles we faced in New York, the comfort and warmth of his family home set deep in the heart of Moscow, built like a fortress to withstand the bitter cold, feels amazing.

It isn’t just the home, though, of course. Mikhail and I have our own floor here. The rest insisted. I was amazed at the sheer size of this place and half expected that anyone who grew up in a home like this would be absolutely spoiled, but that’s not how they did things here with the Romanov family. I don’t completely understand why they ever left Russia to begin with, but know it has something to do with his father burning bridges.

We don’t have a commute while we’re here and thankfully my nausea’s a distant memory, so we get to spend more time with each other. We revel in each other. Mikhail’s also different here in Russia, in his homeland. Maybe it’s because the threat against us has been put to rest and he can finally breathe a little more freely. Or maybe it’s because we’re in his homeland and he finds a bit of himself here. But Mikhail seems to be easing into his position as pakhan, as leader of the family. It’s a role he was born to fill.

I’m not on the run anymore. Mikhail and his brothers put a decided end to that, and thanks to Aleks’s prowess, Volkov and everyone he was working with are either dead or in jail. Aleks orchestrated a high-profile exposé, outing the names and crimes committed that both he and I found.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.

Mikhail has promoted me and while he hasn’t demoted Aleks, he’s given him another job as well. So now I feel like I’m not Aria Cunningham, Professor by Day and Hacker by Night anymore.

No.

I’m Aria Romanov, head cybersecurity expert, a pivotal member of the Romanov family business. Aria Romanov, wife to Mikhail, mama to our unborn child, sister to Polina and the Romanov brothers.

“Mikhail? Polina? Aria?” Ekaterina’s voice rings out.

“In here!” Polina responds around a mouthful of cookie.

Mikhail gently lays my foot down and stands, stretching. Here in Russia he doesn’t often wear the formal clothes he does in America. While I love the look of him all dressed up, I could get used to the tees and jeans. There’s something so damn sexy-casual about it. Who am I kidding? I love Mikhail in anything.

Ekaterina opens the two large doors to the living room, an uncharacteristic look of concern on her face. “Where is everyone?”

Mikhail looks up. “The short answer is, everyone’s working except Viktor and Nikko, who were lifting last I heard.” He sobers at the look on her face. “Everything alright?”

Ekaterina nods, but she’s rarely fazed by anything, so this isn’t super reassuring. “Call them, please.”

Mikhail snaps to attention. I pull out my phone and tap the security feed at the same time Polina stands tall and squares her shoulders. “What is it?”

“We have visitors. The guards at the front gate told me there are two of Volkov’s men asking for permission to enter.”

A muscle twitches in Mikhail’s jaw. He lifts his phone to call Viktor and Nikko. “Aria, what do you see?”

I pull up the names and profiles based on a quick facial recognition check. “Dmitri Petrov. Pavel Kuznetsov. Confirmed affiliation with Fyodor Volkov.”

Ekaterina watches us thoughtfully when the sound of heavy footsteps comes from the hallway. Viktor looms in the doorway, barring any light from coming in, Nikko close at his heels.

“Volkov’s men are at the gate. Bring them to me.” Mikhail nods to his mother. “You and Polina, leave us, please.”

“Mikhail…”

He looks up at his mother. “Yes?”

She cringes. “No blood on the carpet, son.”

The two of them leave. Mikhail curses.

“They’re nice carpets,” I say, more because I feel the need to back her up than because I know anything about the quality of carpet. He grunts in response.

Polina follows her mom and gives my hand a little squeeze on the way out, leaning in and whispering in my ear, “Tell me if either one of them are cute.”

My eyes widen in shock that she’d dare to go there, but it only makes her laugh out loud as she leaves.

“They can’t be here to attack. If they were, they wouldn’t have entered by the front gate, Mikhail.”

“Mm. I make it a rule not to assume until I have all the data. Get behind me.”

Heavy footsteps return but there’s no sound of a scuffle or bodies being dragged down the hallway.

“We come bearing gifts,” Viktor says with a sardonic smile.

“I can fetch a silver platter…” Nikko says, his eyes twinkling.

Mikhail stands in front of me, his large, muscled back rippling under the thin fabric of his tee when he places his hands on his hips. “On your knees,” he snaps, in that voice that makes a shiver go from the base of my neck down the length of my spine. “Now.”

Viktor and Nikko shove the men to their knees. I quietly peek to the left to catch a glimpse. Okay, cute is not a word I’d use to describe either of them, but I can report back to my sister-in-law that one of them is hot.

Even while pushed to their knees, they’re just a few inches shorter than I am. The first is blond with ice-blue eyes that chill me, an athletic build with taut muscles under simple street clothes. The other is older and stockier, with dark hair and midnight eyes.

“Tell me why you dare defile my family home with your presence,” Mikhail snaps. Okay so maybe he isn’t more relaxed in Russia. I’m pulling stats and info as quickly as possible. “You’ll speak in English so my wife can understand every word you say.”

Um. About that…

How sweet is he, though?

“Aria. Report, please.”

God, I love when he gets all bossy on me, and I can show off.

“Dmitri Petrov. Thirty-two. Born in Siberia. Father former KGB operative. First came on the scene in the arms trade. Oversees international arms smuggling.” I look up. “Likes eighties rock music and matcha lattes.”

Mikhail’s lips twitch. I like to throw a little personal touch in just to show that I can. I have his financial records, medical history, record of online communications and the names of every woman he’s fucked in the last three years, but I don’t want to bog my husband down with unnecessary details.

Mikhail jerks his chin at the second.

“Pavel Kuznetsov. Forty-two. Raised in Moscow where his family makes their home. Father died when he was young, forcing his hand to learn to earn money. Overseas high-end prostitution in the Red Square. D’awww. Has a penchant for owning long-haired cats.”

“Do you confirm or deny your identities?”

“Confirm,” the men say in unison.

“You have thirty seconds to tell me why you defiled my family home with your presence.”

Thirty seconds or what? I look around the room and cringe when I notice a large open floor space with no carpet. He can do a lot of damage and still maintain clean carpets…

The older one speaks first. “You will soon hear news of the death of Fyodor Volkov, our former pakhan. He died by his own hand two hours ago in America. Volkov intentionally kept his men at odds with one another with no strong leadership. In the wake of his death, our group is unstable.”

The second continues. “Your brotherhood is built on loyalty and a hierarchy of power. We come to you of our own accord and submit ourselves to your authority. You are a man worthy of respect, Mr. Romanov, and we humbly ask you to consider us as future men of the brotherhood.”

Mikhail scowls at them. “The only reason I’m still allowing you to live is because I’m curious what you have to offer.” These men knew they could be facing a death sentence with Mikhail. And yet they’re here. He nods to Nikko. “Keep them in holding until further notice.”

The men are brought to their feet and led out. They hang their heads in silence, their fates undetermined and resting in the palm of my husband’s hand.

Yikes.

Mikhail reaches for my hand. “Would you like to go out to dinner?”

So we won’t talk about the fact that he has two men “in holding,” which means that this gorgeous home has a dungeon somewhere or something. He won’t talk about what just went down at all.

Double yikes.

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds perfect.”

We walk hand in hand out of the room. “Am I wobbling?”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll eventually wobble, though.”

“And if you wobble, you wobble. You’ll still be gorgeous and adorable, and mine.” I love the feel of his heavy hand on the small of my back.

It’s kind of cute hearing him say “wobble” in his accent.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have you here in Russia, my love. My homeland. Bearing my child. It seems at times to be more than I deserve.”

“Oh, it’s definitely more than you deserve,” I tease. We’re in a vacant hallway with a large window that overlooks the garden nestled behind this house.

“Is that right?” he asks. I squeal when he presses me against the window and slaps my butt, hard.

A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks. I turn to him, my tone demure. “I was only teasing, of course. You deserve so much more.”

“Do I?” He turns me to face him. The sun from the window glints on his handsome features. Shadows dance along the walls. He stands in front of me, his warm eyes reflecting a storm of feelings.

I love the feel of his warm hand on the back of my neck. He brushes a stray lock of hair from my face. I shiver. He rests his other hand on the small of my back. Heat curls in my stomach.

When his lips meet mine, it’s so much more than just physical – a joining of two hearts and minds.

I wrap my arms around him and lose myself in the passion of the moment. When we finally pull apart, we’re both gasping for air. He frames my face in his capable hands. “I love you.”

I lay my hands atop his. “And I love you. I feared this would happen, you know.”

“What would?”

“That I’d fall in love with my captor.”

He looks boyish and vulnerable when he looks up at me. “And?”

Does he really not know?

I grin. “It totally happened.”

I’ve made peace with a lot of things. My place in his family. Being a mom.

Being married to a tiger.

He reaches for me. “Aria, you opened the door to a world riddled with darkness and let the light in. You’ve given me a reason to hope. I love you for who you are and who I am with you.” He brushes his lips to mine. “I’ve lived many lives. But this one? This one is my favorite.”

When he holds me to him, I close my eyes and feel like we got a bonus wedding scene. The vows I took to him were under duress. But these? These words came freely and of his own accord.

Mikhail is sovereign over all, but most of all? He is king to my heart.