Page 138 of Inked Athena

That the most powerful thing you can do is let love change you.

Samuil’s fingers tighten around mine as he steps up to the microphone to address the crowd. I expect him to let go—to assume the stance of power these people recognize. Instead, he keeps me anchored to his side.

“Many of you knew my father,” he begins, voice carrying to every corner of the yacht club’s grand ballroom. “Leonid Litvinov was respected. Feared. Obeyed.” His thumb traces circles on myknuckles. “But he forgot the most important lesson about power: it means nothing if you’re alone at the top.”

The crowd shifts, uncertain where this is going. I am, too, if we’re being honest.

“My father taught me that love makes you pathetic.” Samuil’s jaw tightens. “That trust is for fools, and mercy is for cowards.” His eyes find mine. “But I stand before you today because a woman who had every reason to hate me chose to save me instead.”

My throat closes up. This isn’t the speech anyone expected—least of all me.

“Nova Pierce walked into my life and showed me that real strength comes from having something worth protecting. Worth dying for.” He places his free hand on my belly. “Worth living for.”

Rufus and Ruby press against my leg as tears threaten.

“So yes, I am your new leader,” Samuil continues, addressing the room again. “And I will be stronger, more ruthless, more successful than my father ever was. Because unlike him, I understand where true power comes from.” He raises our joined hands. “From this.”

Then, lifting a champagne flute to the sky, he adds, “To the future of the Litvinov empire—and to the queen who makes it worth building.”

The room erupts in cheers and raised glasses, but I barely notice.

I’m too busy falling in love with Samuil all over again.

One Year Later—Castle Moorbeath

It’s been almost two years since the funeral. There are probably still enemies out there, old and new alike, who’d love nothing more than to hurt Samuil, hurt me, hurt our family.

But they aren’t in here.

In here, spring sunlight pours through leaded glass windows, turning dust motes to fairy lights as they dance around my man and our daughter.

In here, the air smells like Mrs. Morris’s scones.

In here, Samuil cradles eleven-month-old Louisa against his broad chest while Grams—our terrifying wedding planner—rattles off ceremony details at a frankly astonishing pace.

“The flowers from Holland arrive Thursday, the custom vodka Friday, and?—”

“Papa!” Louisa’s squeal cuts through my grandmother’s logistics. Her tiny hand reaches for Samuil’s face, and just like that, Chicago’s most fearedpakhantransforms into putty.

“Moya printsessa,” he coos, pressing kisses to her dimpled fingers. “Tell this scary lady that weddings can wait, yes?”

I hide my smile behind my teacup. “Sam, Grams will slaughter you in your sleep if you suggest postponing again. We’re doing this. Next week. Come hell or high water.”

“But you’re tired,zaychik.” His gray eyes find mine, softening in that way that still makes my knees weak. “Between the baby and running the household?—”

“And that’s precisely why we need this.” I cross to them, running my fingers through his hair. “To mark how far we’ve come. To show our daughter that love wins, even in the darkest places.”

Louisa babbles agreement, patting her father’s stubbled jaw.

My grandmother clears her throat. “If I may remind you both, postponing now would be… unwise.” The steel in her voice could sharpen knives.

Samuil and I share a look. We’ve faced down rival mobs, corrupt cops, and murderous relatives. But neither of us is brave enough to cross Serena Hogan when she’s got that gleam in her eye.

“Wonderful,” deadpans Grams when neither of us pipe up to argue any further. “So glad we’re all in agreement. Now, come this way. Lots to show you…”

We follow Grams outside and down the worn stone path to the barn, Louisa’s tiny hand wrapped around my finger as she toddles between Samuil and me. It’s no surprise that she’s an early walker—they make the Litvinovs very headstrong, as it turns out.

I don’t mind going slow while she gets her feet under her, though. It’s beautiful in Scotland during the springtime. The morning sun gilds everything in sight—the towering castle walls, the dewy grass, my daughter’s dark curls, my man’s strong profile.

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