Page 82 of The Enforcer's Vow
Eventually, I pull the sheet over us and shift to my back, keeping her close and we lie tangled together under the sheets, her head on my chest, my arms wrapped around her. The windows are open, letting in the sound of waves against the rocks below. She traces patterns on my skin with her fingertips, and I find myself relaxing in a way I haven't in years. The candles have burned lower, casting dancing shadows on the walls, and the scent of jasmine drifts in from the garden.
"Maksim?" she murmurs against my chest, her voice drowsy with contentment.
"Mmm?" I respond, my fingers combing through her hair.
"Thank you," she says, pressing a kiss to my sternum.
"For what?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"For bringing me here. For giving me this." She lifts her head to look at me, and her eyes are soft with contentment. "For making me feel whole."
I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "You did that yourself."
"No," she says quietly, shaking her head. "I've been broken for so long, I forgot what it felt like to be complete. But this?" She gestures to the space between us, the bed, the room filled with moonlight and possibility. "This is what I've been missing."
I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. "Sleep."
"Will you stay awake?" she asks, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my arm.
"For a while," I promise, my voice soft.
She settles back against me, and I feel her body relax as sleep takes her. I lie there listening to her breathing, to the rhythm of her heartbeat against my ribs.
The sea outside continues its eternal dance with the shore, and I finally understand what peace feels like.
Of course, we'll have to return to the world, to the complications and dangers that come with my name and history. There will be decisions to make, territories to navigate, a future to secure for our child. But tonight, in this bed, with this woman in my arms and our child growing inside her, I am exactly where I belong.
I think about the brother she's lost, the family that failed her, the father who vanished into nothing. I think about my own failures, the orders I've followed, the things I've done in service to a cause that never truly mattered. None of it seems important now, not compared to the woman sleeping against my chest and the future we're building together.
The moonlight shifts across the room as the hours pass, painting new patterns on the walls. Zoya stirs occasionally, murmuring in her sleep, and I hold her closer, protective even in this peaceful moment. This is what I want to protect, this quietintimacy, this sense of belonging that I've never experienced before.
I close my eyes and let myself drift, held by the sound of her breathing and the promise of tomorrow. When I wake, it will be to sunlight streaming through the windows and Zoya stirring beside me, and I will know that I am home.
33
EPILOGUE
ZOYA
The morning light filters through the stained glass windows of the chapel, casting jeweled patterns across the stone floor. I stand in front of the altar, cradling our daughter against my chest, feeling the familiar tug of exhaustion that has become my constant companion these past three months. Elena sleeps fitfully in my arms, her tiny fist curled around the edge of her christening gown—a delicate creation of ivory silk and antique lace that belonged to Maksim's grandmother.
Anya—my new sister-in-law—moves beside me with grace, adjusting the train of Elena's gown with gentle fingers. "She's beautiful, Zoya," she murmurs, her voice soft with genuine warmth. "Absolutely perfect."
"She has his eyes," I whisper back, gazing down at my daughter's face. Even in sleep, Elena's features mirror her father's—the same strong jaw, the same determined set to her mouth. But her hair is dark like mine, and when she's awake, her gaze holds a curiosity that I hope she inherited from both of us.
Anya smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from my dress—a flowing creation in deep navy that accommodates my still-changing body while maintaining an air of elegance appropriate for the occasion. "And your stubborn streak, I imagine," she says with a smile that transforms her usually serious face.
"God help us all," I reply, and we share a quiet laugh that feels good in my chest.
The chapel is small but exquisite, its vaulted ceilings and ornate woodwork speaking of centuries of faith and tradition. Candles flicker on every surface, their warm light mixing with the colored glass to create an atmosphere of sacred intimacy. Fresh flowers—white roses and baby's breath—fill the space with their delicate fragrance, arranged by Anya's careful hands earlier this morning.
Father Doroshev stands at the altar, his aged face kind and patient as he waits for us to settle. He's been the Vetrov family priest for over thirty years, which I learned only after my fitful night of grieving with him, and his presence here feels like a blessing in itself. The man who baptized Maksim and his brothers, who officiated their mother's funeral, who has kept the family's secrets and offered absolution when needed.
Behind us, Rolan occupies the front pew, his massive frame somehow fitting into the narrow space with surprising grace. He's dressed in a charcoal suit that emphasizes his broad shoulders, and his usually stern expression has softened as he watches his brother prepare for this moment. There's pride in his eyes, and something else—relief, perhaps, that Maksim has found this kind of peace.
Elena stirs in my arms, making the soft mewling sounds that usually precede a full-scale protest. I rock her gently, trying to soothe her before the ceremony begins, but she's working herself up to one of her legendary fits. Her face scrunches, turning an alarming shade of red, and I know we have perhaps thirty seconds before she unleashes her considerable lung capacity.
"Oh, little one," I murmur, bouncing her slightly. "Not now, please."
