Page 83 of Innocent Bratva Hostage

The baby monitor sits on the nightstand, its soft hum a constant reminder of the life we’ve brought into this house. Anatoly’s quiet breaths filter through, steady and soothing, as Hannah’s head rests against my chest.

“You’re listening for him, aren’t you?” she asks sleepily, her voice muffled against my shirt.

“Maybe a little bit,” I reply.

She shifts slightly, her hand resting over my heart. “He’s safe. We’re all safe.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, letting her words settle over me like a balm. As her breathing evens out, I find myself staring at the monitor, the faint sounds of our son lulling me into a rare, peaceful calm.

For the first time in years, I let myself dream—not of power or control, but of a future built on something far more precious.

Epilogue - Hannah

The warm June sun bathes the rows of chairs in golden light as I stand at the edge of the stage, my graduation cap slightly askew and my nerves buzzing beneath my skin. The hum of the crowd fills the air, a mixture of laughter, cheers, and the occasional cry from a restless toddler. Somewhere in that crowd sits Makar, an imposing figure among the happy families, his ever-serious expression softened just slightly by pride.

I press a hand to my belly, the gentle curve of my second pregnancy a constant reminder of how far I’ve come. The baby stirs faintly, as if in agreement, and I smile, adjusting the cap on my head before stepping forward.

The dean reads out my name, her voice carrying over the crowd. “Hannah Sharov, Bachelor of Arts.”

The applause washes over me like a wave as I walk across the stage, my gown swishing around my ankles. My heart swells, the magnitude of this moment hitting me all at once. For years, this had felt like an impossible dream—a goal buried beneath fear, confinement, and survival.

Yet, here I am, standing in the light of something I built for myself, with the people I love waiting for me just beyond the edge of the stage.

As I shake hands with the dean and accept my diploma, my gaze sweeps over the audience. My eyes find Makar almost instantly, his towering frame impossible to miss even seated. He’s not clapping like the others—of course he isn’t—but his piercing blue eyes are locked on me, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles. My heart skips a beat, and I can’t help but smile back.

The ceremony passes in a blur of speeches and cheers, the weight of the diploma in my hands grounding me in reality.When the graduates are dismissed, the crowd erupts into a joyous commotion as families flood the field, searching for their loved ones.

I spot Makar immediately, standing at the edge of the crowd with Anatoly perched on his hip. At almost three years old, Anatoly is already a miniature version of his father, his dark hair a mess of soft curls and his big blue eyes scanning the crowd with curiosity.

“There’s Mommy,” Makar says, his voice low but unmistakably proud as he points me out.

“Mommy!” Anatoly calls, squirming in Makar’s arms.

I laugh, weaving through the crowd until I reach them. Anatoly launches himself into my arms the moment I’m close enough, and I stagger slightly under his weight before holding him tightly.

“You saw me, huh?” I ask, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Uh-huh,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. “You’re so cool, Mommy.”

“Thanks, buddy,” I say, grinning as I brush a hand through his messy hair.

Makar steps closer, his free hand brushing lightly over the small of my back. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice quieter now.

“Thank you,” I reply, looking up at him. “For everything. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

His lips twitch into a faint smirk. “You could have,” he says. “I’m still glad I was here.”

I rise onto my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hands slide to my waist, steadying me as I press a kiss to his lips. It’s gentle, tender, but the way his fingers tighten against me says so much more.

A small voice cuts through the moment, full of exaggerated disgust. “Ew! Gross!”

I pull back, laughing as I turn to Anatoly, who’s wrinkling his nose at us from where he sits cross-legged in the grass.

“Gross, huh?” I say, walking over to scoop him up despite his squirming protests. “You won’t think it’s so gross when you’re older.”

He shakes his head vehemently, his curls bouncing. “Nope. Never. Kissing is yucky.”

Makar chuckles, stepping up beside us. “Don’t worry, kid. It gets better.”

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