Page 21 of Captured By the Masked BRATVA
When I return to the sofa, Elena manoeuvres into a more comfortable sitting position. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, her skin glowing in the sunlight.
“What’s that?” she asks, voice still thick with sex.
I kneel beside her. “Something that’s been waiting a long time.”
Her eyes widen when I open it. The ring catches the light, an antique band of white gold, the diamond small but flawless, framed by filigree that’s almost too intricate to exist. It belonged to my grandmother, the last woman in our family who believed love could survive power.
“Elena,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I’ve spent my whole life serving ghosts, my father’s orders, Lev’s memory, the weight of our name. But from the moment I captured you withthe intention of killing you, then fell for you in ways I never thought possible... I want to choose who I serve.”
She stares at me, lips parted, breath shallow. “And you choose me?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “From the moment you looked at me and didn’t see a monster.”
Her eyes shine, and when she speaks, her voice trembles. “Artem, this is insane.”
“Everything about us is insane,” I admit. “But it’s real. You’re real. And I’d rather build a future from madness than spend another day living for ghosts.”
I take her hand, sliding the ring onto her finger. It fits perfectly, as if it’s been waiting for her all along.
For a heartbeat she just looks at it, at me, at the promise sitting between us. Then she laughs, soft, breathless, the sound of something breaking open and healing at once.
“Yes,” she says, the word catching halfway between disbelief and joy. “Yes, Artem.”
I lean in, capturing her mouth with mine, the kiss slow and certain. Her fingers curl in my hair, and I feel the world click into place around us.
When we break apart, I press my forehead to hers. “You’re mine now,” I whisper. “Not because I took you, but because you want to be.”
She smiles against my lips. “And you’re mine.”
Epilogue
Elena
The apartment feels different now. Softer. The glass walls no longer echo; they hum quietly with life. The city below still roars and blinks and burns, but up here it feels a world away, as if we’ve built something sacred above all the noise.
The cello rests against my shoulder, the bow gliding over the strings in the same rhythm I’ve played a hundred times before. The lullaby. The one Artem’s mother sang when he was small. The one I played every night through the long months of waiting, when our son’s heartbeat was still only a sound on a monitor and Artem would rest his head against my stomach, listening.
Now Lev sleeps just a few rooms away, small and perfect and endlessly loved.
The door opens softly behind me. I don’t have to turn to know it’s Artem, I can feel the shift in the air, the heat that always follows him.
He doesn’t speak at first. I hear the rustle of his jacket as he hangs it up, the low hum of his voice carrying through the apartment as he murmurs to the baby, soothing him back into sleep.
I keep playing.
When Artem appears in the doorway, he’s barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tousled from the wind. He carries Lev against his chest, one big hand supporting our son’s head. The sight still makes my heart ache, the most dangerous man I’ve ever known, holding the most fragile thing we’ve ever made.
He sways gently, his voice low and rough as he hums the lullaby in time with my bow. The same tune his mother once sang. The same one that binds us now, grief, memory, and love folded into a single melody.
When the song ends, I set the cello aside. Artem lays Lev in his crib, tucks the blanket around him, and stands there for a long moment just watching. Then he crosses the room to me.
“You saw the doctor today,” he says quietly.
“I did.”
His fingers brush the inside of my wrist, tracing the faint scar where the bow sometimes bites. “Can I?” he murmurs. “I need you so much, solnyshko.”
I smile, leaning into his touch. “Then take what you need. Take me.”
