Page 66 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
The kiss is slower than before, but no less consuming. Her lips part beneath mine, soft heat drawing me in, her hand sliding up to rest against my chest. I feel the faint tremor of her fingers over my heartbeat, the fragility and the defiance in the same touch.
When we break apart, her forehead rests against mine, her breath uneven.
“This doesn’t make us equals,” I say, voice rough.
“No,” she agrees. “It’s a start, though.”
The fire crackles, the storm thrums, and I hold her hand tighter, knowing I will not let go.
***
Later that night, the house is quiet. Guards stand where they should, the storm has passed, and even the walls seem to breathe easier.
I can’t sleep. The war outside is still raging, and the fire inside me hasn’t burned out. I walk the familiar hall back to my wing, each step steady, though I feel something coiled under my skin.
When I push open the door, I see her.
Annie lies in my bed, the sheets tangled around her hips, her eyes open, waiting. No words. No accusations. Just silence, thick with everything that’s been left unsaid.
I don’t ask why she’s here. I don’t demand answers. I simply move toward her, slow, deliberate, as though each step is permission she can revoke if she chooses. Her breath catches when my hand brushes her face, my thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. She leans into it.
The kiss comes without warning. It isn’t gentle, but it isn’t frantic either. It’s months of tension finally stripped bare, heat and ache bound together. She doesn’t stop me. She meets me, her lips parting under mine, her hand clutching at my wrist like she can’t bear the space that still separates us.
I lower myself onto the bed, covering her with the weight of my body, but I don’t rush. I don’t need to. The world has been waiting for this moment as much as I have. My mouth trails down her neck, her collarbone, the soft shudder of her breath answering each touch. My hands find her waist, her hips, pulling her closer until we fit together like we were meant for this and nothing else.
The night stretches long. There are no commands, no games, no chains. Only the slow, relentless rhythm of skin against skin, the sharp exhale of her pleasure, the way her body yields and fights all at once. I take my time. She lets me.
When it ends, when her head rests on my chest and her breath steadies, I wonder how I ever slept without her weight against me, how I ever thought silence could be enough.
We don’t move for a long time. The ceiling fades into darkness, her hand rests splayed over my ribs, and for the first time in years, I feel still.
By morning, something has shifted. Something between us has been claimed, wordless but undeniable.
I don’t dress it up with speeches or promises. Over coffee, I tell her the truth as plainly as a gunshot: the last man tied to her father’s murder is gone.
Her eyes widen, then blink back tears she refuses to let fall. She nods once, steady despite the tremor in her breath. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I only incline my head. I don’t tell her how long I’ve carried Richard Vasile’s name, how deep the weight of it pressed into me, how many nights I thought of her face when I ordered a man’s death. I don’t tell her that this—delivering vengeance in her name—is the closest I’ve ever come to asking forgiveness.
That night, when we return to my bed, I don’t hesitate. I wrap an arm around her and Henry both, pulling them into the space that was once mine alone. No questions. No conditions. They settle against me like they belong here, and maybe they do.
Now, when I watch her sleep, it isn’t to measure her next move, to guess how she’ll betray me or where she’ll run. It’s to marvel at the fact that she’s still here, choosing this. Choosing me.
I don’t say the words aloud. I don’t need to. They pulse through every gesture, every breath, every glance across a room: she’s mine, and I’m hers. Fully. Irrevocably.
Whatever comes next, whatever blood the war demands, I’ll face it without fear.
Epilogue - Annie
The gallery opens quietly, tucked into a narrow corner of the city where most people would walk past without a second glance. Inside, the walls are clean and white, the floors polished to a subtle gleam. Soft light spills down from hidden fixtures, illuminating each painting, each photograph, each sculpture with deliberate care. It isn’t extravagant. It doesn’t need to be.
It’s mine.
I move slowly through the space, my fingertips grazing the edge of a display stand, careful not to leave a smudge. Every brushstroke here, every frame, every piece hung exactly where it belongs—chosen by my hands, my eyes.
Pride curls inside me, quiet but fierce, because this place isn’t only art. It’s proof. Proof that survival can be reshaped into something beautiful.
There are days when the silence of the gallery feels like sanctuary, the air thick with nothing but paint and memory.
