Inked Athena (Litvinov Bratva Book 2)
Inked Athena: EPILOGUE

I feel like an overstuffed crow.

It’s Samuil’s fault. I’m eight months pregnant, but he swore black would be “slimming.” But a slim whale is still a whale, no matter how much silk you drape her in.

Sighing, I look up. The woman in the mirror is both familiar and strange. Gold-brown eyes lined with kohl, dark hair swept up in an intricate twist. Who is this girl, this Cinderella who stumbled and bumbled her way from the dog park to the throne?

But my fairy godmother came packing heat, and my glass slippers left bloody footprints. Love didn’t find me in a ballroom—it found me in the crosshairs, when I chose to dance with the devil instead of running from him.

“You’re overthinking again, krasavitsa.” Samuil appears behind me, his gray eyes meeting mine in the mirror. The fresh scar above his collarbone peeks from his crisp white shirt—a badge of survival from that day at his father’s funeral.

“I’m not built for this.” I gesture at the formal attire, at the weight of expectations pressing down harder than my swollen belly. “Your people want a queen. I still trip over my own feet.”

His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady. “My people want what I want: someone real. Someone who brings light into dark places.” He presses a kiss to my neck. “Someone who tamed the beast.”

I lean back against his chest, letting his strength shore up my wobbling confidence. Tonight, dozens of powerful men and women will pledge their loyalty to Samuil Litvinov, the new king of Chicago’s underworld. And I’ll stand beside him, their unlikely queen, carrying his heir.

He kisses me on the temple once more, then starts to leave. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Five minutes,” he warns, “or else I’m coming back to fetch you—and if that happens, we might never make it out of this bedroom.”

I laugh and pinch his ass as he saunters out of the room.

But when he’s gone, the nerves creep back in again. It’s one thing to feel confident when Sam is with me. Unfortunately, I can’t stay plastered to his side all the time.

A soft whine breaks through my anxiety spiral. Ruby and Rufus sit at attention beside me. He’s wearing a custom, midnight-black bowtie that matches my dress perfectly, as does the onyx bow tied around Ruby’s head.

“Look at us,” I say aloud, scratching behind their ears. “The dogs and their walker, living in a fairy tale.”

Rufus tilts his head, studying our reflection with an aristocratic air that makes me snort-laugh. It’s like he knows he looks good. The sound bounces off the marble floors and crystal chandeliers of our dressing suite. Ruby whines like she’s telling him not to be a pompous ass.

“At least we all clean up nice.” I smooth my hands over the silk stretched across my belly. “You, too, little one,” I add, just so my baby doesn’t feel left out.

Rufus bumps his cold nose against my palm, then sits regally beside me again. Always on guard, always watching. Just like his master taught him. On the other side, Ruby is just as alert.

“You’re right,” I tell them, squaring my shoulders. “Time to own this.”

The diamond at my throat catches the light, throwing rainbow prisms across the walls. Not a collar marking ownership, but a crown declaring partnership. Samuil didn’t just give me safety or luxury—he gave me purpose. A chance to protect others the way I once needed protection.

Two tails thump against the floor in approval.

The yacht club’s grand staircase feels like a stage, and for a heartbeat, I freeze. Hundreds of faces turn toward me—craggy faces that have seen more darkness than light, more death than life.

But then I see him.

Samuil commands the front of the room like he was born to it—which, I suppose, he was. His tux fits him like sin, and the way he holds himself—shoulders back, chin lifted—screams of brutal, unchecked power.

But I know better. I see the way his throat works when our eyes meet. The barely-there softening of his expression that tells me exactly where his heart lives.

My Bratva king isn’t made of ice anymore. He’s flesh and blood and mine.

Rufus gives a quiet “woof” of greeting, and I swear Samuil’s lips twitch. The gathered men and women—Chicago’s elite mixing with Moscow’s most dangerous—collectively hold their breath. They’re waiting to see how the new boss handles his queen’s entrance.

I lift my chin and descend. One hand on the rail, one held gently over my belly. Rufus and Ruby move in perfect sync beside me, more bodyguards than pets.

When I reach Samuil, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “Moya koroleva,” he murmurs. My queen.

The room relaxes fractionally. This is what they needed to see—their leader claiming his woman, his heir, his future. But I know what they don’t: that behind closed doors, this man kneels for me. That the most feared boss in Chicago whispers poetry against my skin and melts when he feels our baby kick.

That the most powerful thing you can do is let love change you.

Samuil’s fingers tighten around mine as he steps up to the microphone to address the crowd. I expect him to let go—to assume the stance of power these people recognize. Instead, he keeps me anchored to his side.

“Many of you knew my father,” he begins, voice carrying to every corner of the yacht club’s grand ballroom. “Leonid Litvinov was respected. Feared. Obeyed.” His thumb traces circles on my knuckles. “But he forgot the most important lesson about power: it means nothing if you’re alone at the top.”

The crowd shifts, uncertain where this is going. I am, too, if we’re being honest.

“My father taught me that love makes you pathetic.” Samuil’s jaw tightens. “That trust is for fools, and mercy is for cowards.” His eyes find mine. “But I stand before you today because a woman who had every reason to hate me chose to save me instead.”

My throat closes up. This isn’t the speech anyone expected—least of all me.

“Nova Pierce walked into my life and showed me that real strength comes from having something worth protecting. Worth dying for.” He places his free hand on my belly. “Worth living for.”

Rufus and Ruby press against my leg as tears threaten.

“So yes, I am your new leader,” Samuil continues, addressing the room again. “And I will be stronger, more ruthless, more successful than my father ever was. Because unlike him, I understand where true power comes from.” He raises our joined hands. “From this.”

Then, lifting a champagne flute to the sky, he adds, “To the future of the Litvinov empire—and to the queen who makes it worth building.”

The room erupts in cheers and raised glasses, but I barely notice.

I’m too busy falling in love with Samuil all over again.

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.”

Louisa babbles, “Papa!” and the gathered crowd laughs once more.

My own vows catch in my throat, but Samuil’s grip anchors me. Steadies me. Just like always.

“I vow to be your shelter in the storm,” I whisper when it’s my turn. “To love your darkness as much as your light. To build a family where trust isn’t weakness and love isn’t a liability.”

A single tear escapes down his cheek. I reach up and brush it away, feeling like my heart might burst from all this joy.

My hands still shake as Samuil slides the ring onto my finger. The platinum band nestles against my engagement ring, catching the golden Scottish sunlight. Two circles of forever.

“By the power vested in me…” the priest continues, but I’m once again lost in the beautiful turbulence of Samuil’s eyes. In them, I see our future stretching out before us—more babies, more adventures, more battles fought side by side.

A commotion erupts from the goat pen. The kids have escaped and are making a break for the flower arrangements. Hope’s eyes go wide with panic, but before she can move, Rufus and Ruby spring into action. They herd the wayward babies back to their mama with practiced efficiency, tails wagging proudly at a job well done.

Samuil’s lips twitch. “Even our dogs know how to protect what matters.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest declares once the mayhem has been contained. “You may kiss your bride.”

My new husband—husband—cups my face in his calloused hands. His touch is reverent, like I’m something precious. Something holy.

“Moya zhena,” he breathes against my lips. My wife.

Then he kisses me, and the world falls away. No more mob wars or family betrayals. No more running or hiding or doubting ourselves.

Just this moment, this man, and this love we’ve fought so hard to keep.

When we break apart, Louisa squeals from Grams’s arms, reaching for us with grabby hands. Samuil scoops her up, and suddenly, we’re a tangle of limbs and laughter and happy tears.

The crowd erupts in cheers, but I barely notice. I’m too busy memorizing how it feels to finally, finally be whole.

The string lights shimmer like fallen stars, casting everyone in a dreamy glow. Even the hardened Bratva soldiers look softer somehow, their sharp edges blurred by candlelight and copious consumption of Scottish whisky.

Samuil’s hand finds the small of my back, his touch electric even through layers of silk and lace. “Dance with me, Mrs. Litvinov?”

The way he purrs my new name sends shivers down my spine. I let him guide me onto the dance floor laid out in the castle courtyard. Myles and Hope have beat us out there, but they’re too busy exploring each other’s tonsils to notice us.

“They’ll be next,” I murmur, nodding at our best friends.

Sam’s chest bobs with quiet laughter. “Myles better not fuck it up. I need Hope around to keep you out of trouble.”

“Me? Trouble?” I bat my eyes innocently. “Never.”

His grip tightens possessively. “You’re nothing but trouble, krasavitsa. And now, you’re my trouble forever.”

I melt against him, breathing in his familiar scent of spice and leather. Across the courtyard, Grams rocks a sleeping Louisa, her weathered face peaceful in the golden light. Our daughter’s curls spill over Grams’s shoulder like ink, her tiny fist clutching the pearl necklace Sam gave her this morning.

The sight of my daughter sleeping in my grandmother’s arms makes my throat tight. All those months ago, when I first discovered I was pregnant on that yacht, I never imagined we’d end up here—surrounded by love and laughter instead of violence and fear.

“You’re thinking too hard yet again.” Sam’s lips brush my temple as we sway to the music. “I can practically hear the gears turning.”

“Just grateful.” I trace the scar on his collarbone through his shirt. “For everything that brought us here. Even the bad stuff.”

His hand slides lower on my back, possessive and heated. “The bad stuff made the good stuff sweeter.”

I shiver. Even after everything we’ve been through—the betrayals, the battles, the blood—he can reduce me to putty with just his voice.

“Speaking of good stuff…” His fingers thread through my hair, carefully avoiding the crystal pins Hope spent an hour arranging. “Are you ready to escape? I have plans for you that aren’t suitable for public consumption.”

Heat pools low in my belly. “What about our guests?”

“Let them drink and dance.” His lips graze my forehead. “I need my wife alone.”

I glance around one last time, taking in this magical moment. Bratva soldiers are teaching our Scottish neighbors traditional Russian dances. Ruby and Rufus lie sprawled at Mr. Morris’s feet, worn out from their goat-herding adventures. This unlikely family we’ve built, against all odds.

“Lead the way, Mr. Litvinov.”

The moonlight turns Samuil’s shoulders to marble as he leads me up the winding stone steps of our highest tower. My wedding dress whispers against the worn flagstones, each step taking us further from the party below.

“Almost there.” His voice is rough velvet in the dark.

The door opens to a nest of silk pillows and furs beneath an open patch of stars. White roses perfume the air, their scattered petals glowing silver in the starlight.

“When did you⁠—”

His mouth captures mine, stealing my question. His hands find the buttons of my dress with practiced ease, and before I know it, I’m drowning in sensation—the scratch of his stubble against my throat, the burn of his palms on my bare skin, the sweet bite of night air on my exposed flesh.

“My queen deserves a proper crown.” He pulls back just enough to drink me in. The hunger in his gray eyes makes me shiver. “Made of starlight and diamonds.”

I reach for his tie, needing to feel his skin against mine. “Less poetry, more action.”

His laugh is wicked and warm. “As my wife commands.”

We come together like waves crashing on rocks—inevitable, unstoppable. His hands map my curves like he’s discovering them for the first time, drawing gasps and sighs that float up to mingle with the stars.

When he finally slides home, I arch beneath him, caught between the softness of fur and the hard planes of his body. The position opens me deeper, makes everything more intense.

“Look at me,” he growls, and I do.

The universe wheels above us, but all I can see is him—my dark angel, my fierce protector, my inked Adonis.

Mine.

Forever.