Page 74 of The Russian's Innocent Prey
“How are you feeling?” she asked, settling into the chair beside my bed while Trev hovered near the doorway like he wasn’t sure he was welcome in this sacred space.
“Tired. Happy. Terrified,” I admitted, because honesty was one of the gifts that surviving war together brought—the ability to speak truth without fear of judgment.
“Normal, then,” she laughed, reaching out to stroke our daughter’s cheek with the gentle touch of someone who understood how precious and fragile a new life could be.
Drew and Casandra arrived next, bringing champagne that wouldn’t be opened today but would be saved for the christening we were planning next month. Their arms were full of baby gifts—soft toys and tiny clothes and books about princesses who save themselves instead of waiting for rescue.
“She’s beautiful,” Casandra said, and there was something wistful in her voice that made me wonder if she and Drew had been having conversations about their own future, about whether love could exist in our world without the constant threat of loss.
“She’s an Antonov,” Drew replied with a grin that transformed his usually serious features. “Beautiful and dangerous. Just like her mother.”
Even Rafael had sent acknowledgment from his compound in Italy—flowers for the baby with a note written in his careful script: “For the little Antonov. May her reign be softer than her father’s.”
The words carried weight, an acknowledgment that power would one day pass to new hands, that the violent men who had built this world would eventually step aside for the children they had tried to protect. It was both blessing and burden, hope and responsibility wrapped in expensive paper and tied with silk ribbons.
But the moment that broke me completely came when Maxim settled onto our couch, this giant of a man who commanded respect through violence and fear, and took our daughter into his arms with the infinite gentleness of someone who understood that some things were worth more than power.
He rocked her slowly, his massive hands supporting her tiny head while he murmured something in Russian that sounded like a lullaby or a prayer. She fit against his chest like she was always meant to be there, safe in the arms of her uncle, who would burn the world to keep her safe.
“Uncle Maxim,” I said softly, and he looked up with tears he’d never admit to crying.
“She’ll never want for anything,” he promised, his voice rough with emotion. “Never be afraid, never be alone. We’ll make sure of it.”
I believed him completely. In our world, family wasn’t just about blood—it was about the bonds forged in crisis and strengthened through loyalty. Our daughter would grow up surrounded by people who would die for her without question, who would kill for her without hesitation.
She’d inherit a complicated legacy, but she’d never inherit it alone.
***
As the afternoon faded into evening and our visitors began to drift away, promising to return tomorrow and the day after that, I found myself standing at the edge of our living room, watching the people who had become my world.
Trev and Sasha shared the love seat, her head on his shoulder, while he traced lazy patterns on her arm. The trauma that had brought them together had evolved into something deeper, a love that understood the fragility of happiness and refused to take it for granted.
Drew and Casandra debated the merits of different security systems for the nursery, their professional relationship having shifted into something more personal over the months since the war ended. They moved around each other with the careful awareness of people who were still figuring out what they wanted but knew they wanted to figure it out together.
Maxim had claimed the recliner, our daughter still secure in his arms, and he was teaching her Russian words she was too young to understand, but would grow up knowing anyway. She watched his face with the intense focus that babies bring to everything, like she was memorizing him for future reference.
And Lev moved between them all, playing host with the natural grace that came from being comfortable in his own home, in his own skin, with his own choices. He’d shed the hypervigilance that used to mark his every movement, the constant scanning for threats that made relaxation impossible.
For the first time since I’d known him, Lev Antonov looked at peace.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, appearing beside me with the silent movement that used to be a tactical necessity but now was just habit.
“This,” I said, gesturing toward our living room full of people who chose each other, who built something resembling a normal family from the broken pieces of their violent lives. “All of it.”
His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his side, where I fit like I was designed specifically for this space. “Any regrets?”
The question was casual, but I could hear the uncertainty underneath it. Despite everything we’d been through, despite the promises and the vows and the child we’d created together, part of him still expected me to wake up one day and realize I’d made a terrible mistake.
I thought about the woman I’d been when I first kissed him in that underground club five years ago, the one who declared her hatred for everything Bratva and swore she’d never let one of these dangerous men touch her. That woman seemed like a stranger now, someone I had known briefly but never truly understood.
“There was a time I hated the Bratva,” I told him, letting my gaze encompass all of it—the people, the complicated loyalties, the beautiful violence of the world I’d chosen. “I thought it was all darkness and death, all the worst parts of human nature given power and permission.”
“And now?” His voice was carefully neutral, giving me space to be honest, even if the truth might hurt.
I smiled, feeling the rightness of it settle in my chest like coming home. “Now the Bratva is my world, and I love it. All of it. Even the parts that scare me.”
Because that was the truth I’d learned over these months of war and peace, of loving a dangerous man and choosing to build a life in the spaces between violence. This world wasn’t good or evil—it simply was. It was made of people who made hard choices for reasons that mattered to them, who builtfamilies from fragments and loved with the intensity that came from understanding how easily it could all disappear.
