Page 137 of Inked Athena

EPILOGUE: NOVA

FIVE MONTHS LATER

I feel like an overstuffed crow.

It’s Samuil’s fault. I’m eight months pregnant, but he swore black would be “slimming.” But a slim whale is still a whale, no matter how much silk you drape her in.

Sighing, I look up. The woman in the mirror is both familiar and strange. Gold-brown eyes lined with kohl, dark hair swept up in an intricate twist. Who is this girl, this Cinderella who stumbled and bumbled her way from the dog park to the throne?

But my fairy godmother came packing heat, and my glass slippers left bloody footprints. Love didn’t find me in a ballroom—it found me in the crosshairs, when I chose to dance with the devil instead of running from him.

“You’re overthinking again,krasavitsa.” Samuil appears behind me, his gray eyes meeting mine in the mirror. The fresh scar above his collarbone peeks from his crisp white shirt—a badge of survival from that day at his father’s funeral.

“I’m not built for this.” I gesture at the formal attire, at the weight of expectations pressing down harder than my swollen belly. “Your people want a queen. I still trip over my own feet.”

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. “My people want what I want: someone real. Someone who brings light into dark places.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “Someone who tamed the beast.”

I lean back against his chest, letting his strength shore up my wobbling confidence. Tonight, dozens of powerful men and women will pledge their loyalty to Samuil Litvinov, the new king of Chicago’s underworld. And I’ll stand beside him, their unlikely queen, carrying his heir.

He kisses me on the temple once more, then starts to leave. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Five minutes,” he warns, “or else I’m coming back to fetch you—and if that happens, we might never make it out of this bedroom.”

I laugh and pinch his ass as he saunters out of the room.

But when he’s gone, the nerves creep back in again. It’s one thing to feel confident when Sam is with me. Unfortunately, I can’t stay plastered to his sideallthe time.

A soft whine breaks through my anxiety spiral. Ruby and Rufus sit at attention beside me. He’s wearing a custom, midnight-black bowtie that matches my dress perfectly, as does the onyx bow tied around Ruby’s head.

“Look at us,” I say aloud, scratching behind their ears. “The dogs and their walker, living in a fairy tale.”

Rufus tilts his head, studying our reflection with an aristocratic air that makes me snort-laugh. It’s like he knows he looks good.The sound bounces off the marble floors and crystal chandeliers of our dressing suite. Ruby whines like she’s telling him not to be a pompous ass.

“At least we all clean up nice.” I smooth my hands over the silk stretched across my belly. “You, too, little one,” I add, just so my baby doesn’t feel left out.

Rufus bumps his cold nose against my palm, then sits regally beside me again. Always on guard, always watching. Just like his master taught him. On the other side, Ruby is just as alert.

“You’re right,” I tell them, squaring my shoulders. “Time to own this.”

The diamond at my throat catches the light, throwing rainbow prisms across the walls. Not a collar marking ownership, but a crown declaring partnership. Samuil didn’t just give me safety or luxury—he gave me purpose. A chance to protect others the way I once needed protection.

Two tails thump against the floor in approval.

The yacht club’s grand staircase feels like a stage, and for a heartbeat, I freeze. Hundreds of faces turn toward me—craggy faces that have seen more darkness than light, more death than life.

But then I seehim.

Samuil commands the front of the room like he was born to it—which, I suppose, he was. His tux fits him like sin, and the way he holds himself—shoulders back, chin lifted—screams of brutal, unchecked power.

But I know better. I see the way his throat works when our eyes meet. The barely-there softening of his expression that tells me exactly where his heart lives.

My Bratva king isn’t made of ice anymore. He’s flesh and blood andmine.

Rufus gives a quiet “woof” of greeting, and I swear Samuil’s lips twitch. The gathered men and women—Chicago’s elite mixing with Moscow’s most dangerous—collectively hold their breath. They’re waiting to see how the new boss handles his queen’s entrance.

I lift my chin and descend. One hand on the rail, one held gently over my belly. Rufus and Ruby move in perfect sync beside me, more bodyguards than pets.

When I reach Samuil, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “Moya koroleva,” he murmurs.My queen.

The room relaxes fractionally. This is what they needed to see—their leader claiming his woman, his heir, his future. But I know what they don’t: that behind closed doors, this man kneels for me. That the most feared boss in Chicago whispers poetry against my skin and melts when he feels our baby kick.

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