Page 76 of Sold to the Bratva
“I’d forgotten how much the pregnancy hormones enhance the experience.” I sigh, settling myself back against the pillows.
He drops a hot kiss to my chest. “I’d forgotten how big your pregnancy hormones make your boobs.”
“You’re such a man,” I chastise, rolling my eyes but having no heat behind the action.
I’d be a lot more annoyed if he weren’t so damn good at giving my tits the attention they deserve.
“I’m a happy man,” he says quietly. “You’ve made me unbelievably happy from the moment I met you.”
“Damn it.” I laugh. “I spent a long time trying to make you absolutely miserable.”
He kisses me again, soft but sure. “That definitely didn’t work. You couldn’t have gotten rid of me if you’d held a gun to my head. I would’ve happily taken that bullet.”
I snuggle against his chest, and he presses a kiss to the crown of my head.
“Well, I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” I murmur. “Because you’re a really phenomenal father. And, every now and then, you’re a pretty okay husband.”
He tickles my side at the barb and I can’t help but giggle before I kiss the space just under his Adam’s apple.
“You never succeeded in making me miserable,” he says. “But you’ve always driven me absolutely crazy.”
I sit up and look down at him. His eyes are dark and I can see the desire growing there again already.
“Good,” I whisper, before kissing him deeply.
EXTENDED EPILOGUE
ISAAC
Five Years Later
The gallery lights cast a soft golden glow, turning the room warm and intimate. I hover near the refreshments table, trying to keep my three kids from toppling a tower of champagne flutes. Kira, six, stands with her arms crossed like a miniature general surveying her domain. Four-year-old Nikolai keeps sneaking bites of every chocolate-covered strawberry within reach. And Alina, only one and already the queen of all she sees, perches on my hip, her little fingers hooked in my collar, her curls damp from the lights.
Katya’s gallery buzzes with life. Patrons drift from painting to painting, their wineglasses half finished, their expressions glowing with awe. Laughter, soft jazz, and the hum of recognition swirl through the room, and everyone senses they’re witnessing something special, something meaningful.
And at the center of it all, like a flame pulling every moth in the room toward her, is my wife.
Katya stands in a crimson dress that hugs every curve and flows like liquid fire down her body. Her hands move as she talks, expressive and elegant, and the people around her, artists, critics, and friends, hang on her every word. She glows. Radiates. The fire that used to be anger, rebellion, fight-for-her-life fury has evolved into something just as fierce, but refined. Focused. Beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone command a room the way she does.
“Mommy looks like a princess,” Kira whispers beside me, clutching her little sketchbook, the one Katya gave her last week so she could “document the world through her eyes.”
“She looks like a queen,” I correct softly, eyes still locked on my wife.
Katya turns her head just slightly, her gaze sweeping the room until it lands on me. Her smile is immediate. Bright and happy. It hits me like a punch to the heart, the way it has for nearly seven years now.
She starts making her way toward me, excusing herself with a graceful wave, her heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor. People step aside for her. Not because she demands it, but because she carries herself like someone who knows exactly who she is.
When she reaches me, I pass Alina to her so I can run a hand down Katya’s back, relishing the feel of her warm skin beneath the open slit in her dress.
“Hey, Mama,” I murmur, leaning in for a kiss.
She accepts it with a smirk. “Hey, Papa.”
“How’s the queen of the evening holding up?” I ask.
Katya looks down at our daughter now nestled against her chest.
“I’m a little tired, but I feel unbelievably grateful. It still doesn’t feel real, you know?”
