EPILOGUE: VALENTIN

One month later …

“Are you ready, baby?” Zoya asked as she came into our living room. I got up from the couch and took her in my arms. Zoya’s head looked around the room and she smiled in satisfaction.

“It feels strange to have a home of our own,” she said happily.

I tracked the small room with my own eyes and felt something ache in my chest. “I’ve never had a home before.” Zoya’s arms tightened around my waist. She didn’t say anything in response, but I knew she understood.

Kirill and Ivan, along with Luka and Zaal, had gifted us this house. They wanted to give us a larger house, one worthy of a member of the Bratva, but Zoya and I preferred something small. We were both so lost living here on the outside. We wanted to be on our own, in a place big enough just for her and me. And Zoya wanted to be among her people. Avto and his wife only living two doors down.

Zoya pulled back and moved to the closet to get our coats. She slipped hers on. I couldn’t help but smile as her face became lost in the fur hood around her neck.

She was so beautiful. Every inch the Kostava printsessa.

I was busy staring at my Zoya when she turned and smiled. Taking my coat off the hook, she brought it to me and kissed me on the lips. I groaned against her mouth, my hands lifting to cup her face. I pushed her back until she hit the wall, but Zoya wrenched her head to the side and gasped for breath. “Valentin, I need a break. We’ve been in bed all day, and I want to go outside.”

My nose ran over her cheek and down her neck. I felt her shiver beneath my touch. “I can’t get enough of you,” I said, and pushed my groin against her.

Zoya laughed and pushed on my chest. “I know, baby, but I want to take a walk with you. I want us to go outside. We need to.” She reached down and took hold of my hand. She brought it to her lips and said, “With your hand in mine. Free, like other couples. We’re no longer prisoners trapped indoors. We finally get to go outside.”

My eyes blazed as I watched her press kiss after kiss on the back of my hand. A hungry growl rumbled in my chest. Reaching down to the coat that had fallen to the floor, Zoya picked it up and pushed it in to my chest.

“Put it on,” she said playfully.

Taking the damn coat, I pushed it on and followed Zoya to the door. I pulled on a heavy woolen hat and pulled the hood of the coat to cover my face.

Zoya opened the door, but when she caught sight of me behind she pushed it back shut. I frowned, wondering what she was doing. Then she reached up and pushed my hood down. I swallowed hard at that look on her face, the one I couldn’t believe she ever cast on me. The one that told me she loved me.

The one that told me I owned her soul.

Zoya pushed the hat off my shaven head and kissed along the scars on my cheek. As she pulled back, her gaze bored into mine. “Do not hide away from me,” she said.

I pushed my fingers into her hair and said, “I’m not hiding from you. You see me. I could never hide from you, kotyonok.”

Zoya sighed and said, “Then don’t hide from everyone out there, either.” She pointed out of the door. My stomach clenched at the thought of going outside. I had barely been outside in the daylight since becoming a free male. I never went out during the day. I had seen the reaction of the Volkovs and Tolstois when they met me. I saw the way the guards stared at my face. Unlike Luka and Zaal, I couldn’t hide the scars of my past with clothes. I wore them for everyone to see. The few people we had come into contact with had cowered away at one look. The people who lived close by always gave me a wide berth.

Zoya had made me promise to walk through Brighton Beach with her today. She was sick of being inside. She wanted to show her people we were together. She was sick of hiding us from the world.

Zoya threw the hat to the floor and said, “It’s not cold enough to wear that. And there is no need to hide your face.”

“They’ll stare,” I replied, feeling pathetic for even caring.

Zoya’s face softened and she whispered, “Then let them stare.”

Zoya’s fingers squeezed mine and she opened the door. I pulled up the collar as high as it would go and stepped out into the daylight.

The bright winter sun was blinding. I wanted to lift my face and feel its warmth. But when I scanned the area I could see the Kostavas’ Georgian people who lived around us beginning to stare. Their heir was making her first appearance.

I kept my head down when Zoya pressed against my side, lifting my arm to wrap around her shoulders. I pulled her close. With her shorter height, she fit perfectly.

Zoya’s warm breath ghosted over my skin, and she whispered, “They are staring at me more than you. Most of my people, they have not seen me since I was five.”

I nodded my head, but I saw the looks the people were giving us as we walked on. The Georgians were opening the doors of their houses, running out on the street to kiss Zoya’s hand, and greeted her with, “K’alishvili.” Happiness at her survival showed on their faces.

Then they looked at me and the blood drained from their cheeks. I tried to pull my arm away from Zoya’s shoulders as she smiled and greeted her people in return. But Zoya gripped my hand tightly, forcing me to stand beside her. Forcing her people to see that I was hers. Introducing me as her male.

My heart swelled knowing she wanted me this much. I would never understand it, but I would never refuse it, either.

The farther we walked toward the beach and the pier, the more the Georgians came out to see her. I watched in awe as the people kissed her hand or waved at her from afar. She was a printsessa. They were overwhelmed that she had survived, and Zoya thanked her people for their love and support.

Children came out with their mothers, Zoya stopping to stroke their faces. I watched, starving for breath, seeing Zoya with the babies. An image sprang into my mind—Zoya holding our child in her arms. A peace drifted through my body at the thought.

As we continued our walk, I stored the image at the back of my mind, not wanting to lose the happiness I felt when I pictured it.

We had crossed the road that led to the pier when a little girl called out, “K’alishvili!” The little girl shouted again and ran across the road holding a red flower in her hand.

She stopped before us and held her flower up for Zoya to take. Zoya smiled at the little dark-haired girl and bent down to take the flower. “Thank you,” Zoya said, and the little girl nodded her head shyly.