Page 62 of Bound By the Bratva

This time, when she says it, I don't freeze. I don't retreat behind walls of ice and control. I pull her against me and hold her like she's the only solid thing in a world gone mad.

"I know," I murmur into her hair, breathing in the scent of her, the warmth of her, the impossible gift of her forgiveness. "I know, and I love you back. I love you enough to let you go if that's what you need. But I'm hoping—God, I'm hoping you'll choose to stay."

She pulls back to look at me, her face wet with tears but radiant with something I've never seen before. Not resignation, not fear, but choice. Real choice, freely given.

"I'm staying," she says, and the words remake my world. "We're staying. All of us."

Behind us, Nikolai helps his grandfather to his feet, chattering excitedly about breakfast and showing him his new toy cars. The sun is rising over Moscow, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, and for the first time in my life, I understand what redemption feels like.

It tastes like forgiveness on a woman's lips. It sounds like a child's laughter echoing off stone walls. It feels like coming home to a family you never thought you deserved but will spend the rest of your life protecting.

The Vetrov empire is built on fear and blood and the bones of my enemies. But this—Anya in my arms, Nikolai calling meBatya, even Pyotr looking at me with something approaching respect—this is built on something stronger.

This is built on love.

And love, I'm finally learning, is the only foundation that never crumbles.

31

EPILOGUE: ANYA

Three months have passed since Rolan brought my father home, and the estate has settled into something I never thought possible—peace. Not the brittle quiet of a ceasefire, but the deep, abiding stillness of a place where violence has finally laid down its arms.

I stand on the balcony of what has become our bedroom, watching Nikolai race through the courtyard below. His laughter echoes off the stone walls as he chases a red ball that bounces unpredictably across the ancient cobblestones. Two guards—Misha and Maxim—watch him with the careful attention of men who understand that this child's safety is worth more than their lives. But their vigilance has softened into something almost paternal, and I catch Misha smiling as Nikolai attempts an elaborate somersault that ends in a giggling heap.

The coffee in my hands has gone cold, forgotten in the simple pleasure of watching my son be a child, really be a child, for perhaps the first time in his life. No fear shadows his movements, no cautious glances over his shoulder. He runs with the wild abandon of a boy who knows he is safe, who knows heis loved, who knows that the walls around him are protection rather than prison.

I'm wearing a dress Rolan bought me—soft cream silk that moves like water when I walk, nothing like the armor of designer clothes he used to choose for me. This feels like something I might have picked for myself, back when I was young enough to believe in fairy tales and happy endings. My hair falls loose around my shoulders, no longer scraped back into the severe chignon I used to favor. Everything about me has softened in these weeks, as if I'm finally allowing myself to breathe.

The sound of footsteps on marble makes me turn, but I don't need to look to know it's him. Rolan moves with a presence that fills every room he enters, but it's different now. Less predatory, more settled. He approaches without speaking, his bare feet silent against the stone floor of the balcony, and takes his place beside me at the railing.

We stand in comfortable silence, watching our son play. The morning sun catches the silver threads in Rolan's dark hair, and I notice new lines around his eyes—not from stress this time, but from laughter. He's been smiling more lately, real smiles that transform his entire face. It makes him look younger, less like the fearsomePakhanwho rules Moscow's underworld and more like the man who holds me close in the darkness and whispers my name in the stillness of night's passion.

"Will it ever open?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. I don't look at him, just continue watching Nikolai, but I feel Rolan's attention shift to me.

"What?"

"The cage." I gesture vaguely at the walls surrounding us, the guards, the iron gates that mark the boundaries of our world. "Will it ever open?"

His silence stretches long enough that I begin to regret the question. I don't want to anger him, but living under his thumbis heavy. I know he means well and wants to protect us, but I want so much more for our son. Then his voice comes quietly in a way that makes my chest tighten.

"It's open now."

I turn to face him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"You're still here." He meets my eyes, and I see something in them that takes my breath away. Vulnerability. Wonder. The look of a man who has received a gift he never dared ask for. "The cage is open, Anya. It's been open since the night I told you I loved you. You're here because you choose to be."

The words hit me like a physical blow, not because they hurt but because they reveal a truth I've been afraid to examine too closely. He's right. The locks on the doors have been turned, the keys placed in my hands, and I've chosen to stay. Not because I have to, but because I want to. Because somewhere in the midst of all the pain and fear and anger, this place has become home.

I don't answer him directly. Instead, I let my head fall against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He smells like expensive cologne and something uniquely him—power and danger and safety all wrapped together. His arm comes around me, holding me close but not too tight, and I realize this is what contentment feels like.

"The adoption paperwork is final," he says after a while, his voice careful, as if he's not sure how I'll react to this news.

I lift my head to look at him. "Final?"

"Nikolai is my son. Legally, officially, in every way that matters." His hand moves to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "He'll carry the Vetrov name. He'll inherit everything I've built. He'll be protected by laws and traditions that go back generations."

The magnitude of this gift overwhelms me. Not just the money or the power, but the belonging. The absolute certainty that my son will never be alone, never be forgotten, neverbe anything less than precious. I think of all the nights I lay awake wondering what would happen to Nikolai if something happened to me, and now I know. He would be safe. He would be loved. He would be home.

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