Page 63 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

And who I didn’t want.

Papa threatened that if I didn’t walk away from Sandrine and the baby, I’d lose everything. I didn’t let anyone fucking threaten me. Not even Yuri Volkov.

Sandrine’s eyes widened, and her cheeks curled into a faint smile. A feeling of hope tightened my chest. All I cared about in that moment narrowed to just Sandrine and me.

With shaking hands, I removed the ring from my pocket. “Will you marry me, Sandrine? Be my queen when I become pakhan?”

For a heartbeat, she just stared at me as if she expected an apology. But not this. Not this one-eighty to put it all on the line for her.

“Kirill…” She said my name with a rare roll of the tongue like my father’s hardened men from Russia.

I don’t speak with an accent. There was a faint rhythm in the way I spoke that defined who I really was. And she accepted that. Accepted me.

But she didn’t say yes.

I stood and showed her the four-carat perfect clear stone in a halo setting of amethysts, her favorite color. “I’m sorry I kept us a secret. Enough of that. This is for you to wear. I even had the Volkov insignia engraved into the band. This declares to everyone, you are mine. You will be a Volkov.”

“Kirill, this is gorgeous.” Her hand trembled as she gazed down at it.

“That’s also why we’re here a week later and not a day. I knew the moment you left my office that I fucked up. You are undeniable, and we are irreversible, Sandrine. You, me, and our child.”

But she turned away from the ring, her eyes focused on the water. Water calmed her down.

Perhaps I’d rushed this. “If you need time, I can⁠—”

“No,” she choked out. “I don’t need time.”

She straightened her back and turned to face me again. Chin lifted, she parted her lips to speak, her eyes sad. And I lost the feeling in my legs, thinking she was going to turn me down.

“Kirill,” she said, her face expressionless, only to pop a smile on her lips seconds later. “Of course, I’ll marry you.”

Relief crashed into me, sparking hope and joy in my chest. Feelings, according to my father, I’m not allowed to entertain. Just because he didn’t have a heart.

Fuck that.

I put the ring on Sandrine’s finger and threaded ours together, loving how we connected. I leaned down to kiss her, and I would never forget how her lips tasted after a week apart.

To anchor that moment, I reached into my coat again and pulled out my phone.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a hint of amusement threading through her voice now.

“Creating the first of many permanent memories,” I said as I angled the camera toward us. “And show anyone who doesn’t believe we’re happy⁠—”

“They can all go to hell.” All her fear is gone.

“Damn right, baby.” I hit record, capturing the way she looked at me with happiness and not fear.

“We’re engaged,” I cheered into the camera, my arm wrapping around her waist. “Show them your ring, baby.”

Sandrine laughed and waved her hand, her fingers dancing so the diamond sparkled in the sunlight.

“Are you happy, baby?”

“I’m so happy.”

Still recording, I kissed her, slow and chaste. I hoped for more later. Claim her fully. Her and my child. They were mine.

When I lowered the phone, she tilted her head, her expression turning thoughtful.