Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63391 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
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.”
“Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done,” he says, his voice warm.
I let the silence stretch, my hand moving to rest on Kira’s back, still pressed to Isaac’s chest. She shifts slightly, letting out a tiny sigh in her sleep, and something tightens in my throat.
“It’s been a year,” I say suddenly. “Do you ever think about it?”
He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. He just nods.
“All the time,” he says.
My gaze falls to the floor. “I know I’ll have to talk to him someday, hear it all from his own mouth, but I still haven’t found the will to pick up the phone.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
I nod, but the ache doesn’t go away. “He used me. My own father. My mother would’ve been furious.”
“She would’ve sided with you.”
“She would’ve burned the world for me,” I whisper.
Isaac reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. “I almost did.”
My eyes sting, but I blink the tears away before they fall.
After the attack, once I’d recovered from giving birth and had time to process everything, I told Isaac he could do whatever he wanted with Viktor and Oleg. I expected him to kill them and honestly, I wanted him to.
But instead, he branded them. He literally inked their treachery into their skin and sent them out of the city. They’re alive, as far as I know, but forever marked.
“I didn’t want their blood on your hands,” he told me that night, sitting at my hospital bedside as I cradled Kira.
And I loved him more for it.
“I still think you should have killed him,” I say absentmindedly.
“He died the day he chose Oleg over you,” Isaac grumbles. “Actually killing him would have been too kind after what he did. He deserves to live with the weight of his betrayal for the rest of his miserable days.”