Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Our children. Our twins. A boy and a girl, which we finally learned only after Eva went back and forth about knowing now versus waiting until the birth.
They move as we watch, sucking thumbs, kicking in time with the ripples that move across Eva’s abdomen and the tightly stretched skin there. They move, too, when Eva laughs and when I press my lips to her belly and murmur sweet things to them.
“Everything looks good, Mama, Daddy,” the tech announces as she takes different pictures and measurements on the screen. “The doctor will talk with you, but growth is normal, and heart rate is good.”
Eva turns her head from the screen to beam up at me, glowing with happiness. I squeeze her hand again and kiss her forehead before kissing her lips.
“You ready?” she asks, meeting my gaze.
“If you’re by my side, I’m ready for anything life throws at us,” I reply.
I’m ready for this new chapter in my life, to take the step I was so afraid to take, the one I was so afraid no one would take with me. I am the monster I have always been. But I am also Evgeny Kucherov, and with Eva, at least, I can be that man.
I’ve found myself, and I’ve found a woman who saw me for who I was under the savage mask. The person even I didn’t know was there. A woman who took a chance on me despite my darkness. Or maybe because of it.
I’ve found my home.
EPILOGUE
EVA
Six Months Later
“Thank you for coming! Enjoy your books!”
I send the customer off with sing-song gratitude because I’m just so happy. They walk past the balloons tethered outside and the windows Katie decorated with glass chalk in colorful patterns and swirls.
“I can’t believe this!” Marco walks up to the counter, gazing around the bookstore at people who squeeze past one another to look at books, read them, buy them, or talk about them. The air is festive, buzzing with excitement and low chatter. “I’ve never seen this many people in here before.”
“I can believe it.” I nudge his shoulder, grinning up at him. “You worked hard for this.”
This was Marco’s senior project, to take a business and dream up a refresh for the business model and marketing. Except my brother did more than write it up on paper. He even graduated as valedictorian for the work he’d put into the family bookstore and the way he turned it around.
And now we’re here at the grand reopening.
“I’m proud of you.” I nudge Marco again, and color spreads from his cheeks to his ears, much to my delight. “You did all of this.”
“Evgeny helped,” my brother mutters, uncomfortable with the praise.
An extra stroke of genius, yes. Evgeny offered some of the Kucherov books and a Fabergé egg from his collection as a display to lure even more people in. Hands off, of course, but the display drew a circle two people deep around it, despite the tattooed, unsmiling Bratva member standing guard.
The library and the safe room in Evgeny’s office are the two things that did not burn down, because my husband had made both rooms fireproof to protect what was most precious to him.
They were most precious to him then, anyway.
His priorities have shifted to the two little squishes snuggled and asleep in their carriers behind the counter, Jordan and Eliana, named after my brother and as a nod to both my mother and Evgeny’s mother.
The twins’ sleep schedules are finally evening out, and I’ve been jumping for joy. We were told it was normal for babies born early, as the twins were, at thirty-six weeks, to have trouble sleeping. That knowledge doesn’t make the sleepless nights or the hours trying to get them to nap any easier. And I have more help than most, with Alona often stepping in.
My father is another unexpected source of help, especially now that Marco has taken over much of the business.
The twins’ birth finally stirred him from whatever dark hole he’d fallen into. That, and Evgeny invited him to dinner one night to talk. Not the Bratva “talk.” Evgeny assures me it was civil, a conversation between two men, not the intimidating Bratva pakhan.
Evgeny refuses to tell me what he and my father talked about, but whatever it was, a détente has settled between them. And my father enjoys his grandchildren the way I’m not sure he ever enjoyed his children. Whatever trauma or belief kept him from growing too close to us seems to have vanished with the birth of the twins. Dad is even softer around Katie, for which I am eternally grateful.
The twins, it seems, have changed everything for all of us. I bend down ostensibly to check that they are snug in their car seats, but it’s just an excuse to stare at them.