1 YEAR LATER
The low, persistent hum of vacuuming filtered into Elara's dreams, dragging her out of sleep and into the reality of a new morning. She stirred with a groan, stretching a hand across the bed to reach for the warmth she knew would no longer be there.
Cold.
Nikolai's side was already abandoned.
With her eyes still closed, she fumbled for the nearest pillow, pressing it against her face as the sound of furniture shifting echoed faintly from the living room. Another groan left her lips.
"Is he cleaning?" she mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep and irritation. She cracked one eye open to glance at the bedside clock.
6:33 AM.
"He's insane."
Dragging herself upright, Elara let her head fall back against the headboard, hair a tousled halo around her face. She scanned the floor in search of her dress—what was left of it, anyway. All she saw was a shredded sleeve near the edge of the plush carpet, and she sighed in defeat. Last night had been… wild. No, wild didn't even begin to cover it.
It was desperate. Ferocious. Pent-up lust after weeks of sleepless nights, spit-up-stained shirts, and milk bottles. Ever since Nova was born, intimacy had become an endangered species in their lives. Their daughter—now five months old—was chaos wrapped in baby skin. Cute as a button, but the devil in a diaper.
Just last week, Elara had walked in on her chewing Nikolai's handgun.
Chewing.
He'd hidden it under a couch pillow—he swore it was a temporary mistake, and luckily, the gun wasn't loaded—but still. Elara had nearly gone into early menopause from the fright.
Last night, however, Nova had blessed them with a miracle: an early bedtime. And Nikolai hadn't wasted a second. The moment she said goodnight to the baby, he had her pressed against the wall like a starved animal, lips and hands moving as if to make up for every second of celibacy. She swore the paint on the wall cracked under the force of it. Her back ached just thinking about it.
With a wince and a stretch, she mumbled, "Damn."
She swung her legs off the bed and padded toward the closet, abandoning the idea of rescuing her dress remains. Instead, she grabbed one of Nikolai's oversized white shirts—the one she loved to sleep in—and pulled it over her head. The hem brushed the tops of her thighs as she made her way toward the source of the noise.
The penthouse was already gleaming. Sunlight streamed in through the tall glass windows, catching on the polished marble floors and illuminating the modern, sleek furniture. The scent of fresh lavender cleaner filled the air.
And there he was.
Nikolai Volkov, Bratva prince, feared by men who killed without blinking—vacuuming in a pair of grey sweatpants and nothing else. His bare chest glistened slightly from the exertion, tattoos flexing with every motion of his toned muscles as he moved the vacuum with precision. His brow was furrowed in concentration, like this was a mission.
Elara leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, her lips curling into a smirk.
"You sure do look energetic for someone who almost broke my spine last night."
He glanced over his shoulder, smirk playing at his lips as he turned off the vacuum.
"Just making sure there's nothing dangerous lying around before the little menace wakes up and starts chewing on my dagger again."
Elara stifled a laugh. "She's five months old and already treating weapons like teething toys. That has to be some kind of record."
He walked over to her, wiping his hands with a dish towel he'd tucked into the waistband of his sweats. His hair was slightly tousled, his jaw shadowed in scruff. Despite the hour, he looked annoyingly perfect.
"You laugh now," he said, brushing a kiss on her temple, "but she's going to be walking soon. We need to childproof this place like it's Fort Knox."
"Or just lock all your weapons in a safe like a normal person."
He shrugged. "Guns, blades, poison vials. It's hard to organize."
She rolled her eyes. "We need a full-time nanny. Or a sorcerer. Or a priest."
He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into his chest. Her cheek pressed against the warm skin of his chest, and for a moment, everything was soft. Safe.
"You're glowing," he murmured. "Even after the chaos of last night."
She snorted. "You mean the wall-breaking session or the baby?"
"Both."
They stayed wrapped in each other for a while, the early morning light bathing them in quiet peace. It was rare these days, with Nova keeping them on their toes, but these little pockets of stillness reminded Elara why she said yes. Why she stayed. Why she loved him, even on the days she wanted to hit him with a frying pan.
"You know," he said, lifting her chin so she met his eyes, "I still can't believe you married me."
"Neither can I," she said, grinning. "Especially after I caught our daughter with your gun in her mouth."
He winced. "Low blow."
"You deserved it."
He kissed her then—slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. And for the first time in what felt like weeks, Elara let herself relax into it. The chaos would return soon enough. Nova would wake up demanding attention. Diapers would be changed, bottles would be made, and life would continue spinning like a storm around them.
But right now, in this perfect little moment, it was just them.
Elara. Nikolai.
And peace.
It was peace.
And peace never lasted in this penthouse.
Especially not with a crawling disaster who had a personal vendetta against quiet mornings.
The sudden, sharp wail of an infant tore through the baby monitor like a siren, making Elara flinch.
She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. "And there it is," she mumbled. "Our five-month-old alarm clock."
Nikolai looked up from where he was inspecting a corner behind the TV stand. "I've got the living room covered. Go ahead. Try not to lose your mind."
She gave him a tired salute. "Thanks, comrade."
Dragging her feet slightly, Elara made her way down the hallway, past the security-locked bedroom doors and biometric scanner they'd installed a few months back—because yes, their baby lived in a bulletproof nursery. Elara still found it surreal.
But then again, everything had changed.
She'd resigned from the design firm shortly after she took her maternity leave. Stress and office politics weren't worth it, not when she could build something of her own. With Nikolai's help—and an obscene amount of funding—she had her own boutique interior design company now. She didn't handle the day-to-day anymore. Her name was just a brand. A logo on contracts. She gave ideas, consulted select clients when she felt like it, and mostly focused on being a full-time mother.
Because being Nova's mom was a job that demanded everything. Sanity included.
Elara unlocked the nursery door, pushing it open to reveal the chaos that was their daughter.
Nova Katya Volkov was screaming her tiny lungs out in her white-and-gold crib, her cheeks flushed red, her little fists flailing in outrage like someone had gravely insulted her. Her dark curls were matted against her forehead, and her lavender onesie was half undone—probably the result of her latest attempt to strip herself like a miniature escape artist.
Elara crossed the plush carpet and scooped the baby up into her arms.
"Okay, you little menace. What now? Did you lose your sock or your sanity?"
Nova hiccupped between cries, her face buried against Elara's chest. As usual, her fussing began to quiet the moment she was held.
"Thought so. You just missed me," Elara whispered, rocking her gently. She paced the nursery, past the walls adorned with starlit wallpaper, glowing constellations, and framed photos of Nova's first week in the world. Security cameras blinked faintly in the corners—Nikolai's idea—and even the mobile above the crib had been custom-made with soft silk stars and bullet-resistant wiring.
Ridiculous? Yes.
But Nova was a Volkov.
They returned to the kitchen twenty minutes later. Nova had a clean diaper, a full belly, and now sat in her high chair with a stuffed elephant in hand. She babbled occasionally between bites of mashed bananas, flinging small clumps of it at the floor.
"She's working on redecorating the tiles with fruit puree," Elara muttered, sipping her tea.
Nikolai laughed from across the island as he plated their breakfast—scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and turkey bacon. "Artistic genius. Must get that from you."
"Definitely not from the guy who paints with blood and bullets."
He grinned and handed her a plate.
They had just sat down to eat when her phone buzzed across the marble counter. She picked it up and groaned.
Mom
"Save me," she whispered to Nikolai before answering.
"Hi, Mom. Morning."
Her mother's voice immediately spilled out, filled with urgency and motherly concern. "Elara! Are you okay? Is he still treating you right? Do we need to come over and have a chat with him?"
Elara rolled her eyes affectionately. "Mom, I'm fine. We're all fine. No need to hop on a plane with a baseball bat."
In the background, she heard her father's voice grumble, "Ask her if we need to execute him now. I've been sharpening my surgical tools."
Elara burst into laughter, nearly choking on her tea. "Dad! You're a neurosurgeon, not a hitman!"
"Don't test me," came his deadpan reply.
Nikolai looked over, amused. "Tell him he's welcome to try. I'll bring the anesthesia."
Elara placed the call on speaker.
"We can hear you, Nikolai," her father's voice growled. "One wrong move and I'll make sure your cerebellum experiences pain it was never meant to."
"Good morning, sir," Nikolai replied smoothly, sipping his coffee. "Nova sends her love."
That drew a soft coo from her mother. "Where is my granddaughter? Can we see her?"
Elara turned the phone to show Nova smearing banana mush into her hair.
"Oh my God," her mom whispered, tears in her voice. "She looks just like you at that age."
Her father's gruff tone softened too. "She's a Volkov, sure, but she's got her mother's eyes."
Elara smiled warmly. It hadn't been easy breaking the truth to them. Months ago, before Nova was born, she'd sat them down and told them everything—about Nikolai, about the Bratva, the danger, the violence, the complicated love story that had brought them here. Her mother had fainted. Her father nearly tackled Nikolai with a scalpel in hand.
But then Nova was born.
And when they saw Nikolai hold her—saw the tears that he didn't try to hide, the way he cradled her like she was his entire world—they softened.
That was the moment her parents finally saw what Elara had always known:
Nikolai wasn't just a Bratva heir. He was a man trying to be better.
A father. A partner. Hers.
As the call ended and they returned to their breakfast, Elara looked at the two most important people in her life—Nikolai and Nova. Her world.
And as chaotic, dangerous, and unconventional as it was—this was her peace.