Page 116 of Bratva Baby

He groans like I just gave him air. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate. “Come with me,” he demands.

“I can’t,” I wheeze. “You already—” His fingers pinch my clit sharply, and the pain-pleasure spark detonates another orgasm despite the exhaustion. I cry out, body arching off the couch as shocks ripple through me. He slams deep one last time, shuddering, cock pulsing as he empties inside me. “Sofiya!” His voice is raw. He spills into me, hips jerking, breath ragged. The heat floods, searing.

He collapses on top of me, bracing most of his weight on his elbows so he doesn’t crush me, but I wrap my arms around him anyway, holding him close. His heartbeat hammers against my chest. The rain has mellowed to a drizzle outside. Our daughter’s laughter drifts in from the kitchen, accompanied by Zhenya’s dry sarcasm and the muted curse of a guard stepping on a toy.

Anton’s breath eventually steadies. He lifts his head and kisses me, gentle now, gratitude bleeding into every touch. He slides out carefully, prompting a wet gasp from both of us, then lies beside me, pulling me onto his chest. My hair tangles across his skin; his hand traces lazy patterns on my back.

“Where’s this marriage happening?” I murmur, still high on endorphins.

“Wherever you want,” he says. He reaches into the pocket of his discarded slacks on the floor, pulls out a velvet box I hadn’t noticed earlier, and holds it between us. “Tell me you will stand in front of everyone we choose, not because we’re forced to, but because we survived the kind of war that should have killed us, and we still chose each other.”

My throat tightens. “You carried that box while planning to pin me against the window?”

“I multitask.”

I laugh, faint and shaky, and take the box. Inside is a ring that glints like broken stars—a wide band in platinum, set with three stones. One blazes like a captured comet, flanked by two smaller gems, all sharp fire and clarity. One for him, one for me, one for the small tyrant painting the kitchen with cherries right now.

“Yes,” I say again, more certain than breath. “Anton, yes.”

He exhales, relief and joy crashing together, and slides the ring onto my finger. Then he kisses me with a reverence that turns fierce in a heartbeat, a promise sealed with salt and heat and the knowledge that we chose this life twice now—once out of war, once out of love.

EPILOGUE: SOFIYA

A year later, I marry Anton Reznikov at a private estate outside Moscow with two crime families, six lawyers, one priest, one civil registrar, and Yuri Petrov threatening the catering manager because the fish arrived fifteen minutes later than promised.

The morning starts with our daughter trying to eat the ribbon off my dress while Zhenya stands beside me, arms folded, judging everyone in the room. My daughter is in ivory wool with tiny gold buttons, soft dark curls, Anton’s eyes, and my full disrespect for schedules. She slaps one hand against my necklace and laughs when it catches my hair.

“She’s excited,” I say, trying to free myself.

“She’s planning something,” Zhenya says. “I’ve watched enough criminals at breakfast to know intent.”

Anton steps into the room behind us, already dressed in a black suit that fits him unfairly well. His eyes move from the baby to me, then stay on my dress long enough that Zhenya makes a disgusted sound under her breath.

“You’re early,” I tell him.

“I live here.”

“You know what I meant.”

He walks over, kisses our daughter’s head, then bends and kisses the inside of my wrist because he knows it still gets me every time. “You look good enough to start a fight.”

Zhenya reaches for the baby. “Give me the child before you two become embarrassing.”

I hand our daughter over, and the baby immediately grabs Zhenya’s necklace like she owns it. “No cherries on the dress,” I warn.

Zhenya gives me one flat look. “I kept you alive before him. I can manage one small tyrant and a bowl of fruit.”

Anton’s mouth curves. “She has my strategic patience.”

“She screamed at a spoon this morning,” I say.

“It offended her.”

Zhenya moves toward the nursery suite with our daughter on her hip and two guards falling in behind her. “Go get married. I’ll keep her fed, clean, and away from men discussing route shares near the dolls.”

That should settle me. It almost does. My daughter is with Zhenya, the nursery is guarded, and the whole estate has been checked so many times Yuri accused Anton’s men of insulting his work. I still watch the doorway after she’s gone because motherhood has turned part of my brain into a permanent guard post.

Anton notices, of course. His hand settles at my back. “She’s safe.”