Chapter 14
Six months later.
The wedding was small — a choice that surprised everyone except the two of us. No cathedral. No five hundred guests. Just the estate, candlelit and dressed in white roses, the fireplace crackling like it had that first night.
Dimitri stood at Viktor's side. Irina — who'd become something unexpectedly close to a friend — stood at mine. My father sat in the front row, thinner than I remembered, older. We'd found him in a small town in Portugal, drowning in guilt and cheap wine. The conversation between us had been ugly, raw, and long overdue.
He'd cried. I'd cried. Viktor had waited outside like a sentinel.
We weren't okay — my father and me. Maybe we never would be. But he was here. And that was enough.
Viktor stood at the end of the aisle in a black suit — no surprise — his silver eyes fixed on me like I was the center of everything. As I walked toward him, I remembered the first time I'd seen that gaze. Terrifying. Consuming. Inescapable.
Now it just felt like home.
"You're beautiful," he said when I reached him. Low enough that only I could hear.
"You're biased."
"Completely."
We exchanged vows — private, brief, devastating. His voice broke on one line: *"I spent centuries building an empire. But nothing I've ever owned compares to this."*
I'd written mine on a napkin at 3 AM, crying into coffee:
*"You took everything from me. My freedom, my safety, my normal life. And somehow, you gave me back more than I ever had. I choose you. Every terrifying, beautiful, impossible inch of you. Today and every day until you stop being dramatic."*
He laughed. The room laughed. Dimitri may have wiped his eye, though he'd deny it later.
The ring — my ring — caught the candlelight as Viktor slid it beside the engagement band. His matched. Black platinum. Unmarked except for an engraving inside: *Sera.*
Simple. Mine. Everything.
Afterward, the estate filled with warmth and wine and low music. Viktor pulled me to the center of the room for a dance — neither of us graceful, both of us unwilling to let go.
"Regrets?" he murmured into my ear.
"One."
He tensed.
"I wish I'd kissed you in that vault," I said. "Would've really pissed Volkov off."
Viktor laughed against my hair — that rare, full, devastating sound that only I got to hear.
Later — much later — the guests had gone. The candles burned low. Viktor carried me upstairs, my shoes long discarded, my dress trailing behind us.
In our room — truly ours now — he set me down and just looked at me. Like he still couldn't believe I was real.
"What?" I whispered.
"You're my wife."
The word trembled between us. Not with uncertainty, but with awe.
"I'm your wife," I confirmed.
He kissed me — slow, reverent, burning. His hands found the zipper at my back. My fingers worked the buttons of his shirt. We undressed each other without rush, without performance. Just skin and breath and the quiet fire that had always existed between us.
"Thank you," he whispered in the dark.
"For what?"
"For choosing me."
I pulled him closer, lips against his jaw. "Thank you for not giving up."
"Couldn't. Not on you."
"Even when I climbed out a window?"
"Especially then."
We laughed softly, tangled together. And then there was no more talking — only the two of us, finally complete, finally free.
Outside, the moon hung heavy over the estate. The forest was quiet. No threats. No shadows. No ghosts.
Inside, I lay against Viktor's chest, his arms wrapped around me like he'd never let go.
"Sera Kozlov," he murmured, half asleep.
"Viktor."
"I like the sound of that."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
I smiled into the dark.
A waitress from a dead-end diner. A don who ruled through fear. A debt that should have destroyed us. And somehow — impossibly — this.
Love. Real, jagged, hard-won love.
Built not from softness, but from fire.
Not from fairy tales, but from choice.
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat — strong, steady, mine.
And I knew, with absolute certainty:
I'd burn the world down before I lost this.
But I wouldn't have to.
Because he'd burn it first.
The wedding was small — a choice that surprised everyone except the two of us. No cathedral. No five hundred guests. Just the estate, candlelit and dressed in white roses, the fireplace crackling like it had that first night.
Dimitri stood at Viktor's side. Irina — who'd become something unexpectedly close to a friend — stood at mine. My father sat in the front row, thinner than I remembered, older. We'd found him in a small town in Portugal, drowning in guilt and cheap wine. The conversation between us had been ugly, raw, and long overdue.
He'd cried. I'd cried. Viktor had waited outside like a sentinel.
We weren't okay — my father and me. Maybe we never would be. But he was here. And that was enough.
Viktor stood at the end of the aisle in a black suit — no surprise — his silver eyes fixed on me like I was the center of everything. As I walked toward him, I remembered the first time I'd seen that gaze. Terrifying. Consuming. Inescapable.
Now it just felt like home.
"You're beautiful," he said when I reached him. Low enough that only I could hear.
"You're biased."
"Completely."
We exchanged vows — private, brief, devastating. His voice broke on one line: *"I spent centuries building an empire. But nothing I've ever owned compares to this."*
I'd written mine on a napkin at 3 AM, crying into coffee:
*"You took everything from me. My freedom, my safety, my normal life. And somehow, you gave me back more than I ever had. I choose you. Every terrifying, beautiful, impossible inch of you. Today and every day until you stop being dramatic."*
He laughed. The room laughed. Dimitri may have wiped his eye, though he'd deny it later.
The ring — my ring — caught the candlelight as Viktor slid it beside the engagement band. His matched. Black platinum. Unmarked except for an engraving inside: *Sera.*
Simple. Mine. Everything.
Afterward, the estate filled with warmth and wine and low music. Viktor pulled me to the center of the room for a dance — neither of us graceful, both of us unwilling to let go.
"Regrets?" he murmured into my ear.
"One."
He tensed.
"I wish I'd kissed you in that vault," I said. "Would've really pissed Volkov off."
Viktor laughed against my hair — that rare, full, devastating sound that only I got to hear.
Later — much later — the guests had gone. The candles burned low. Viktor carried me upstairs, my shoes long discarded, my dress trailing behind us.
In our room — truly ours now — he set me down and just looked at me. Like he still couldn't believe I was real.
"What?" I whispered.
"You're my wife."
The word trembled between us. Not with uncertainty, but with awe.
"I'm your wife," I confirmed.
He kissed me — slow, reverent, burning. His hands found the zipper at my back. My fingers worked the buttons of his shirt. We undressed each other without rush, without performance. Just skin and breath and the quiet fire that had always existed between us.
"Thank you," he whispered in the dark.
"For what?"
"For choosing me."
I pulled him closer, lips against his jaw. "Thank you for not giving up."
"Couldn't. Not on you."
"Even when I climbed out a window?"
"Especially then."
We laughed softly, tangled together. And then there was no more talking — only the two of us, finally complete, finally free.
Outside, the moon hung heavy over the estate. The forest was quiet. No threats. No shadows. No ghosts.
Inside, I lay against Viktor's chest, his arms wrapped around me like he'd never let go.
"Sera Kozlov," he murmured, half asleep.
"Viktor."
"I like the sound of that."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
I smiled into the dark.
A waitress from a dead-end diner. A don who ruled through fear. A debt that should have destroyed us. And somehow — impossibly — this.
Love. Real, jagged, hard-won love.
Built not from softness, but from fire.
Not from fairy tales, but from choice.
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat — strong, steady, mine.
And I knew, with absolute certainty:
I'd burn the world down before I lost this.
But I wouldn't have to.
Because he'd burn it first.