She looks at me. The divided loyalty is gone. She’s ours now.
I sling an arm around her and steer her away from Viktor’s corpse. Behind us, the estate burns—our lies going up in flames.
Ahead of us is something real, built on choices we made together.
The war is over. We won.
39
Katya
Katya
Dmitri’s hand brushes the scar Pavel left on my shoulder. For the first time, his touch feels safe.
“Does it still hurt?” he asks, fingers gentle against the raised skin.
“Only when it rains.”
He laughs against my neck. “We’re in Moscow. It always rains.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to keep me distracted.”
We’re in his bed at the penthouse—the same bed where I once woke thinking I was his wife recovering from a car crash.
The irony isn’t lost on me, but this time isn’t about lies. I’m here because I chose to be.
“I keep thinking about how different everything is now,” I murmur, running my fingers through his dark hair. A week ago,we were fighting for our lives. Now we’re planning what color to paint the guest bathroom.”
“You want to paint the guest bathroom?”
“I want to have opinions about guest bathrooms. I want to argue with you about whether we need throw pillows and what kind of coffee to buy. I want normal, boring relationship problems that other couples deal with.”
He rolls over to face me, and those green eyes inspect my face like he’s memorizing every detail. “And you want all that with me?”
“Only with you.”
The words come out before I’ve realized what I planned to say, but they’re true.
After months of uncertainty and deception, I know what I want. Not just safety or protection or convenience, but him.
All of him.
“Katya,” he whispers, and my pulse jumps.
“What?”
“I love you. Not the version of you I created in my head, not the confused woman who needed my protection. I love you exactly as you are right now.”
“A former FSB agent with trust issues and a bullet scar?”
“A brilliant, dangerous woman who forgave me when I didn’t deserve it.”
He kisses me then, softly and slowly, and I can taste the promise in it. This isn’t about possession or control. It’s about choice, and I’m choosing him.
“Show me,” I whisper against his lips.
“Show you what?”
