It’s not home yet.

But it will be. It will be very soon.

Every hour we spend here will imprint a little more of our personalities on this space. We’ll laugh and talk here, building memories and experiences.

“I should have carried you over the threshold,” Seb says.

“No offense my love, but you can hardly carry yourself at the moment,” I say.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of energy left,” he says, with a half-smile. “After all . . . technically we’re still on our honeymoon.”

That smile makes him look boyish again, and ridiculously handsome. He looks like the man who tried to save me from a kidnapper. The one who beat me at pool, and was too much of a gentleman to take his prize.

Grabbing his hand, I pull him toward the bedroom.

Carefully, gently, we strip off each other’s clothes. We shower together, taking turns scrubbing the blood and mud and smoke off each other’s skin. It’s hard to tell what’s dirt and what’s bruises. Each of us is cut and battered to a ridiculous degree, all over our bodies.

It doesn’t matter, though. It’s all evidence of what we went through to be together. In a strange way it makes me happy. Because if none of that could kill us, if none of that could tear us apart, then nothing can.

When we’re completely clean and still slightly damp, we roll onto the bed, onto crisp new sheets that have never yet been slept on.

Sebastian lays on his stomach between my legs. He licks my pussy with long, slow strokes. His mouth feels incredibly warm, and his lips and tongue are soft, since he just shaved his face in the shower.

I lay back against the pillow, feeling like I’m floating and drifting along, like I’m half in this world and half out of it.

The other day I needed rough sex, I craved it, I couldn’t get enough of it. And today I need this gentleness, this care.

Sebastian always knows what I need. He already seems to know my body better than I do. He touches me better than I could touch myself, sending surge after surge of pleasure up through my belly and down through my legs.

The more he touches me, the more sensitive I become. My pussy is throbbing. I can feel every millimeter of skin, every nerve ending igniting in response to his tongue.

The sensation rises to such a fever pitch that I hardly realize it when I start to cum. I sink down into an orgasm that is deep, and sensual, and seems to go on forever.

Sebastian keeps lapping away at my clit, not speeding up or slowing down, just dragging out the climax as long as possible.

When it’s finally over, he climbs on top of me and thrusts inside me, his cock already hard from the arousal of eating me out.

I’m so swollen and sensitive that the thrusts are wildly intense, even though he’s being careful. After a few minutes I can tell that our position is putting too much pressure on his knee, so I climb on top of him instead, letting him take his turn laying back against the pillows while I ride him.

The moonlight is streaming in through the thin curtains, highlighting every line and curve of Sebastian’s face. His eyes look more gold than brown, intent and serious as he looks up at me.

I slowly roll my hips, taking long strokes up and down on his cock. He reaches up to caress my breasts, then sits up on the pillow so he can take one in his mouth and suckle while I ride him.

I think he might be obsessed with my tits, because he’s constantly touching or sucking on them while we fuck. I’m becoming addicted in turn. Every time he does it, they’re more and more sensitive, and that sensation is becoming linked to how good his cock feels inside of me.

Like any good athlete, Sebastian is ridiculously coordinated. He can suck my tits and fuck me and finger my ass all at the same time. Having so many erogenous zones stimulated simultaneously is—simply put—fucking phenomenal.

It makes my whole body thrum with pleasure. It makes me greedy and drunk with lust. I can already feel another orgasm building. I try to slow my pace so that I can ride him longer—it all feels so good that I don’t even want to cum, I just want to keep doing exactly what we’re doing.

But there’s no holding it back.

I throw my head back and I cry out, my pussy clenched tight around his cock, clenching and squeezing every inch of his shaft.

Sebastian grabs my hips hard, his fingers digging into my ass-cheeks. He thrusts up into me, his cock erupting. Greedily I keep riding, wanting all of his cum inside me, every drop. I love how his orgasm triggers mine, and mine triggers his. For each of us, there’s nothing more erotic than making the other person cum.

When we’re finished, we lay side by side on the bed, our long legs tangled up together, and my face pressed up against his neck. Every breath I take fills my lungs with his scent.

Today was the worst day of my life in some ways. In others, it was the best.

Because I’m finally home with my husband. We’re sleeping in our own bed for the very first time.

I hope we’ll have thousands more nights like this, until we’re gray and old. I hope to spend my last night on earth wrapped up in his arms.

As I’m drifting off, Sebastian says, “It’s you and me now, Yelena. Thank you for saving my brother today. But I want you to know . . . your safety is more important to me than anyone’s. I love you more than anyone. I’ll love you and protect you and adore you all our lives. I’ll never stop.”

“I’ll never let you down again,” I tell him. “I’ll never be selfish, or keep anything from you. You’re everything to me Sebastian. I’ll show you that, every minute of every day.”

“I know you will,” he says, kissing me softly where my face meets my ear.

I lift my chin so he can kiss my lips as well.

33

Sebastian

I wake up next to my wife, in our new bed, in our new apartment.

Even after everything we’ve lost, I can’t help but be happy at what I’ve gained.

Yelena is a gift. Just like the night on the pier when my knee was smashed, the night I met Yelena was a turning point. A singular event that altered the course of my life.

I’m starting to think that nights like that are a good thing.

Maybe there is such a thing as fate after all.

Because what I thought I wanted for myself could never have made me as happy as this.

I slip out of the bed to go get fresh coffee and croissants from the little bakery on the ground floor of our building. By the time I get back, Yelena is just stretching and stirring in bed, her silvery blonde hair wavy from falling asleep when it was still wet.

She opens her eyes and says, “Don’t sneak away—it makes me nervous.”

I hand her a cup of coffee, saying, “There’s nothing to be nervous about anymore.”

Yelena takes a sip of her drink, her face serious. “That’s never really true for us, is it?”

I suppose she’s right. In our world, there’s always another enemy. Always another threat. Yenin is gone. But who will take his place?

“Do you want to leave?” I ask her. “Go to Paris like Dante? Or Barcelona, or Tokyo?”

Yelena considers this, taking a bite of her croissant and chewing slowly. At last, she swallows and says, “I was just starting to like Chicago. Besides, Sebastian . . . we are who we are. You never wanted the crown, but it came to you. I never wanted to be a Bratva’s daughter, but I killed Rodion, and I’d kill again if I had to. I want choice in my life . . . but I’m not afraid of the darker side of myself. I hated it, when I thought I was split into two halves—good like my mother, and evil like my father. Now I think . . . they’re both just me. And they always have been.”