Page 82 of Cruel Submission

Now we’re here. In this bed. Her body still warm from mine, carrying the evidence of every choice I’ve made since that day.

I can’t believe the things that have happened since that wedding. Or what’s about to happen now. I rise from the bed.

“Don’t leave.”

Her voice is rough with sleep, eyes still closed. I feel her words against my palm where it rests on her ribs.

“I’m not,” I say.

I slide out of bed anyway. Naked, I cross to where my trousers are folded over the chair. The fabric is cool under my fingers as I dig into the pocket, feeling for the small box.

Found it yesterday. Had my jeweler open at three in the morning because I needed it now. Not tomorrow, not next week. Now.

The box fits perfectly in my palm as I return to the bed.

“Open your eyes.”

She does. Slowly. Her eyes focus on my face first, wary, searching. Then they drop to my hand.

“Sit up.”

She pulls herself up, dragging the sheet with her. Holds it bunched under her chin like armor. Her hair is a mess, tangled from sleep and my hands. There’s a mark on her neck from my mouth.

I click the box open.

The diamond catches what little light there is, scattering it into fragments. It’s not the biggest stone—I’m not trying to weigh her down. But it’s perfect. Clear as water, set in platinum with smaller stones around the band.

Her breath stops.

“Mirabel McLeod.” I’m surprised at how rough my voice is. I clear my throat. “Marry me.”

Her eyes lift to mine. There are tears there, pooling at the corners.

“Arkady—”

“I know I’ve fucked this up. All of it.” The words come faster now, urgent. “I lied to you. Kept things from you. Made you think you were crazy for hearing things, for seeing shadows. I should have told you about Debra the second I brought her home. Should have told you about Aleks.”

“You—”

“I’m not finished.” I shift closer, the mattress dipping under my weight. The box stays open in my hand, the diamond catching light like a promise. I promise I plan to keep for the rest of my life. “I’m a mess, zaychik. I have more issues than I know what to do with. My father’s a monster. My mother’s dead because of me. My brother—”

I stop. Force myself to breathe.

“I told myself I’d never have children. That I’d never put another kid at risk. That I was too broken, too dangerous, too much like Gavriil.” I look down at the ring, then back at her face. “And maybe I am dangerous. Maybe that’s not something that changes. But you—you and this baby and Aleks—you make me want to weaponize it. Point it in the right direction for once.”

Her hands twist in the sheet.

“I’m happy.” The words taste strange. Foreign. But they’re true. “About the baby. About all of it. Things are happening fast—I know that. Six months ago, I was walking away from fatherhood at the altar. Now I’m diving in at the deep end.”

I reach out, touching her cheek.

“That’s a very big shift. I know it is. At the beginning of all this, I flatly refused to have kids. After Mishka died, I learned that you can lose anyone in an instant. That loving someone, needing someone, makes you weak. Vulnerable.”

My thumb traces her jawline.

“But that’s changing. You’re changing it. The thought of you carrying my baby, of Aleks upstairs, of building something that isn’t built on blood and violence—” I stop. Try again. “I want this, Mirabel. I want you. I want us to be family.”

She doesn’t say anything. I can hear my own pulse in my ears, can feel the weight of her stare.