Chapter 161 161

Chapter 161 161
One Year Later—Castle Moorbeath

It’s been almost two years since the funeral. There are probably still enemies out there, old and new alike, who’d love nothing more than to hurt Samuil, hurt me, hurt our family.

But they aren’t in here.

In here, spring sunlight pours through leaded glass windows, turning dust motes to fairy lights as they dance around my man and our daughter.

In here, the air smells like Mrs. Morris’s scones.

In here, Samuil cradles eleven-month-old Louisa against his broad chest while Grams—our terrifying wedding planner—rattles off ceremony details at a frankly astonishing pace.

“The flowers from Holland arrive Thursday, the custom vodka Friday, and⁠—”

“Papa!” Louisa’s squeal cuts through my grandmother’s logistics. Her tiny hand reaches for Samuil’s face, and just like that, Chicago’s most feared pakhan transforms into putty.

“Moya printsessa,” he coos, pressing kisses to her dimpled fingers. “Tell this scary lady that weddings can wait, yes?”

I hide my smile behind my teacup. “Sam, Grams will slaughter you in your sleep if you suggest postponing again. We’re doing this. Next week. Come hell or high water.”

“But you’re tired, zaychik.” His gray eyes find mine, softening in that way that still makes my knees weak. “Between the baby and running the household⁠—”

“And that’s precisely why we need this.” I cross to them, running my fingers through his hair. “To mark how far we’ve come. To show our daughter that love wins, even in the darkest places.”

Louisa babbles agreement, patting her father’s stubbled jaw.

My grandmother clears her throat. “If I may remind you both, postponing now would be… unwise.” The steel in her voice could sharpen knives.

Samuil and I share a look. We’ve faced down rival mobs, corrupt cops, and murderous relatives. But neither of us is brave enough to cross Serena Hogan when she’s got that gleam in her eye.

“Wonderful,” deadpans Grams when neither of us pipe up to argue any further. “So glad we’re all in agreement. Now, come this way. Lots to show you…”

We follow Grams outside and down the worn stone path to the barn, Louisa’s tiny hand wrapped around my finger as she toddles between Samuil and me. It’s no surprise that she’s an early walker—they make the Litvinovs very headstrong, as it turns out.

I don’t mind going slow while she gets her feet under her, though. It’s beautiful in Scotland during the springtime. The morning sun gilds everything in sight—the towering castle walls, the dewy grass, my daughter’s dark curls, my man’s strong profile.

My heart skips when I see Hope directing workers near the barn doors. She’s wearing her assistant wedding planner face, which means something’s about to happen.

The massive oak doors swing wide, and I freeze.

Three baby goats—black, white, and dappled gray—bounce and play in a custom-built pen. Their mother, a gorgeous Nubian with floppy ears, keeps watch from a raised platform nearby, chewing contentedly on fresh hay.

“For me?” The words escape in a whisper, though I already know the answer. I remember a night on the yacht last winter, tipsy on champagne, telling Samuil about my dream of having goats at our wedding.

His arms slide around me from behind, one hand splaying possessively over the curves that motherhood left behind. His breath tickles my ear. “You wanted goats. I got you goats. I deliver what my woman asks for.”

I turn in his embrace, fighting back tears. “I didn’t really expect⁠—”

His kiss steals my protests. When he pulls back, his gray eyes burn with an intensity that makes me swallow hard. “You’ve given me everything. A daughter. A future. Let me give you this.”

Louisa squeals and points at the baby goats, breaking our moment. But that’s okay. Watching him and her, the life we created and the man who helped me do it… That’s as beautiful as anything in this world has ever been.

The bagpipes start playing, and I burst into tears.

“Don’t you dare ruin that makeup.” Hope dabs at my eyes with a tissue. “Do you know how long it took to make you look this ethereal?”

But I can’t help it. The music carries across the castle grounds like a warrior’s cry—fierce and proud and undeniable. Just like the man waiting for me at the end of this flower-strewn aisle.

Rufus prances ahead of me, head held high, the silk pillow with our rings balanced perfectly in his mouth. The sight of him in his little tuxedo vest sets off fresh waterworks.

A commotion from the goat pen draws his attention. The babies are putting on their own show, bouncing and bleating like tiny circus performers. Rufus’s ears perk up, and he veers off-course.

“Focus, buddy.” I giggle through my tears.

He rights himself with a dignified sniff, but then Louisa starts fussing in Grams’s arms. That does it. Ring pillow forgotten, he bounds over to my daughter, pressing his cold nose to her cheek until she giggles.

Ruby, not to be outdone, lets out a series of happy barks from her post next to Hope. The sound echoes off the castle walls, making the crowd chuckle.

And there, at the end of it all, stands Samuil. His gray eyes lock onto mine through my veil, and suddenly, I’m that girl in the park again, tangled in a leash with a handsome stranger. Only now, I know exactly where this path leads.

To him. To us. To forever.

The bagpipes fade into Mendelssohn’s Wedding March, and my heart stutters in my chest. Here we go. I can do this.

One step, then another. The late afternoon sun filters through clouds in honey-gold shafts, turning everything magical—the stone walls, the Highland roses that Mr. Morris grew special, my daughter’s cherub face as she waves from Grams’s arms.

But it’s Samuil who steals my breath.

My fierce, damaged, beautiful man stands tall at the altar. His shoulders are straight, chin lifted—but I see the muscle jumping in his jaw. The way his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

I’m not the only one fighting tears.

When I reach him, he takes my hands in his. They’re shaking. The great Samuil Litvinov—trembling like a schoolboy.

I never thought I’d see the day.

“Dearly beloved…” the priest begins, but I barely hear the words.

All I can focus on is the storm in Samuil’s eyes. The way decades of pain and rage have transformed into something else.

Something pure. Sacred.

When it’s his time to speak, his vows pour out in that growly rumble I’ve come to associate with home. “Nova, I vow to protect you, cherish you, honor you. To give you the freedom to fly and the safety to land. To love our children with everything I am, and to show them that real strength comes from having an open heart.”