Page 80 of Scarlet Chains
The question hangs between us, hinting at a truth that terrifies me. Because we could destroy each other— we both have that power now. I could leave with his child and break him completely. He could decide I’m a liability and make me disappear like countless others probably have.
But he could also be my salvation. And I could be his.
“Then we destroy each other,” he says simply, and the honesty in his voice takes my breath away. “But we won’t.” He strokes my cheek. “We won’t. Because we will be family.”
More tears spill down my cheeks, but these feel different. Cleaner somehow. Like grief finally giving way to acceptance.
I think about the baby growing inside me— his baby, our baby— and the life we could build if we’re brave enough to try. Not the perfect fairy tale I dreamed about as a little girl, but something real and complicated and beautiful in its imperfections. Something worth fighting for.
Something worth risking everything for.
“Yes.”
There. It’s out. I said it.
It’s a simple word. A tiny little sound, really. And yet it means so much. It means… everything.
My logical brain may have doubts, but in that one word, my heart spoke the truth it’s been carrying for what feels like a lifetime.
I want him more than anything. I want us to build a life together from the wreckage of our separate tragedies. I want him to be a father to my baby, to Slava, to whatever other children might come. I want to wake up beside him every morning and fall asleep in his arms every night, even if it means accepting the darkness that comes with loving someone like him.
“Yes,” I repeat, stronger this time, watching as joy transforms his face into something radiant and beautiful. “Yes, I’ll be your wife. I’ll marry you, Osip Sidorov.”
The ring box hits the floor and bounces as he surges to his feet, his hands framing my face with such tenderness I start crying all over again. His thumbs stroke away my tears with infinite care, and when he looks at me, I see my entire future reflected in his stormy eyes.
“You won’t regret this,” he whispers fiercely, like he’s making a vow to whatever gods watch over broken people trying to build something beautiful and lasting. “I swear to you, Ilona, you are not going to regret this.”
Before I can respond, he moves closer. His presence fills my entire world, all masculine heat and controlled power and desperate love. When he smiles at me— really smiles, with nothing held back— my toes curl and my heart stops beating for a full second.
The next moment, his lips crash against mine.
The kiss is everything— desperate and tender, claiming and giving, weeks of pent-up emotion finally finding release. His mouth moves against mine with a hunger that makes me dizzy, like he’s trying to pour his entire soul through the connection of our lips. I taste salt from my tears, the faint sweetness of his breath, and underneath it all, something that’s purely him.
I return the kiss with everything I have, my hands fisting in his robe to pull him closer. It’s long and slow and passionate, filled with everything I can’t put into words. All the love I’ve been too afraid to admit, all the hope I’ve been too scared to acknowledge, all the desperate want that’s been clawing at my chest since the day he walked into my life.
When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard, nose to nose, like we’re sharing the same air. His hands are still cupping my face, his thumbs tracing patterns on my tear-damp cheeks.
“I love you,” I pant between kisses, the words spilling out at last. To hell with waiting till I’m ready. I’m ready now. “I love you, Osip Sidorov. I love you so much it terrifies me.”
“I love you too, Ilona.” His voice is rough with emotion, gravelly in a way that sends heat spiraling through my core. “More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone.”
He kisses me again, softer this time but no less devastating. When he pulls back, there’s mischief dancing in his gray eyes along with the love and hunger.
“How does Ilona Sidorova sound?” he smirks, and the question sends a thrill through me that I feel all the way to my toes.
“Perfect,” I breathe, and I mean it. Whatever else happens, however complicated our future becomes, this moment is perfect. This choice is right.
His smirk deepens into something darker, more possessive, and I see the exact moment tenderness transforms into something else entirely. His pupils dilate, and his hands slide from my face down to my waist, pulling me flush against him until every line of his body is pressed against mine.
“Mine,” he growls against my lips, and the word sends liquid fire racing through my veins. “My wife. My woman. Mine to protect and cherish and worship.”
The kiss that follows is pure claiming— hot and demanding and so intense I forget how to breathe. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, conquering me, making me whimper with need. One of his hands tangles in my hair while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks, and I love it. Love the evidence of his desperation, his need to possess me as completely as I want to possess him.
When he suddenly lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all, I gasp against his mouth. My arms instinctively wind around his neck, fingers threading through the dark silk of his hair as he lays me back against the couch.
“What are you doing?” I ask stupidly, though I already know the answer. I can see it in the dark hunger burning in his eyes, feel it in the tension coiled through his powerful frame.
“I’m going to make love to my fiancée,” he says simply, his voice rough with promise. “I’m going to worship every inch ofher beautiful body until she knows exactly how precious she is to me.”
