Page 73 of Sold to the Bratva
We sit in silence for a long moment. I stare at Kira, who sighs softly in her sleep, completely unaware that the two sides of her bloodline just tried to rip each other apart. And she’s only been alive a few minutes.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “What happens now?”
Isaac exhales. “They’re in the basement. Alive. For now.”
A shiver runs through me. “You didn’t kill them?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to. God, Katya, I wanted to kill them both with my bare hands. But I couldn’t. Not until I knew you were okay. Not until I knew what you wanted.”
I let that sink in. I still don’t know what I want, not yet, but I do know what I don’t. I won’t let this war consume our daughter’s life before she even opens her eyes to the sun.
“I need time,” I say.
“I’m going to keep you both safe,” he says after a beat. “That’s my vow. No matter what it takes. No matter what happens with our families. You and Kira come first. Always.”
I believe him. With everything in me, I do.
EPILOGUE
KATYA
One Year Later
Aparticular hush settles over the studio just before the sun slips beneath the horizon. Light pours through the high windows and turns molten gold, warming the deep wood floors and scattering soft shadows across my unfinished canvas. My fingers are streaked with burnt sienna and ultramarine, my hair twisted into a loose knot I’ve pinned and repinned at least four times tonight. The familiar tang of paint and turpentine hangs in the air, anchoring me.
My body still remembers the strain of last year. My daughter turns one tomorrow, and the looming milestone drags up every ounce of the anxiety I felt the night she was born. Back then I had no idea the man threatening our lives was my own father.
I stretch, trying to work the anxiety out of my limbs. Usually, painting keeps me sane. Standing before a canvas, brush in hand, coaxing an image only I can see until it finally exists is enough to ground me. Tonight, though, I need a little more.
I turn just as Isaac steps inside, and my heart flutters. Nearly two years together haven’t dimmed that reaction. He still knows exactly how to spike my heart rate and how to settle it again.
He’s wearing dark slacks and a fitted charcoal shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tattoos on his forearms. And strapped securely to his chest in a soft gray baby carrier is Kira.
The sight should be ridiculous, almost comical, yet my heart stutters harder. My two favorite people, perfectly paired.
She’s fast asleep, her cheek pressed against Isaac’s chest, her small hands tucked near her mouth. A thin patch of dark curls peeks from the top of the carrier, and I can see the steady rise and fall of her tiny body with every breath. My chest aches with how much I love them.
I cross the room to meet him, careful not to jostle Kira. I press a kiss to her head, inhaling the soft baby scent that clings to her, then tilt my face up to kiss Isaac. It’s slow and sure. Familiar and still electric.
He rests his free hand on my hip, pulling me closer without ever disturbing Kira’s sleep.
“You’re beautiful when you paint,” he says once our lips part. “The focus in your eyes undoes me.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes in response. “Don’t flatter me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he teases, kissing me again.
I glance back at the canvas. It’s abstract, deep blues and sharp whites clashing against one another like waves in a storm. I’ve been chasing something in it for days now. A feeling. A shape. A release.
Isaac follows my gaze.
“I love seeing you in your element,” he says, brushing a kiss to my temple. “And one day, you’ll own your gallery, and we’ll be right here cheering you on.”
A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down and smile. “I know you will. None of this would be possible without your support.”
He grins, leaning back slightly to study my face. “I didn’t do much.”
“You love me,” I tell him simply. “That’s a hell of a lot.”
