Chapter 33: Filthy Lies: Chapter 33

I wake up marked, inside and out.

Vince’s ownership of my body throbs between my legs, across my butt, and in the unfamiliar ache of places I’d never given anyone before last night. Bruises bloom like violent flowers wherever his fingers gripped too hard. My lips feel swollen, sensitive from his punishing kisses.

Old me might’ve been upset.

New me? Not so much.

For all his brutality, Vince gave me exactly what I needed—a reminder that, while I might take risks for our family, I’m never truly alone in this war. That someone sees me. Knows me. Wants me, despite everything I’ve done and become.

I slip from the bed where he sleeps like the dead, his powerful body finally surrendered to exhaustion after claiming me three more times throughout the night.

In the bathroom, I examine my reflection. My neck and breasts are a constellation of love bites. My wrists bear the imprints of his fingers. Between my legs, I’m tender, used in ways that make me blush even now.

But it’s my eyes that have changed the most. There’s a brightness there I haven’t seen since before Sofiya’s birth.

It’s a fragile thing, though. A candle in the warpath of a tornado. If I want to keep it burning, I have to do something.

We can’t keep living like this—cowering in compounds, jumping at shadows, watching Vince grow more ruthless by the day as he tries to shield us from every threat. We need to remember what we’re fighting for.

And I know exactly how to remind him.

I dress carefully in a loose sundress that covers most of the evidence of last night, then pad silently to Sofiya’s nursery. My daughter sleeps peacefully, oblivious to the blood and betrayal that surrounded her entry into this world.

I gather supplies while she nurses: sunscreen, tiny sunhats, beach toys I’d ordered weeks ago but never found occasion to use. By the time Vince stumbles into the kitchen, sleep-rumpled and wary, I’m packing the last of a picnic lunch.

“What’s all this?” he asks, voice still hazy from sleep—and from snarling my name as he came inside me last night.

I lift my chin defiantly. “We’re going to the beach today. All three of us.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Probably.” I continue packing the cooler. “But I’ve already spoken to Arkady. The security detail is arranged. The Hamptons property has been swept and secured since dawn.”

Vince crosses his arms, bringing my attention to muscles that held me down countless times last night. “And you arranged all this without consulting me because…?”

“Because you would have said no.” I meet his gaze directly. “And after yesterday, I think we both need a reminder of what all this violence and paranoia is supposed to be protecting.”

It’s his turn for a brightness to flare up in those eyes. It’s still distant, but I see it. He can’t hide it from me.

“A family vacation? Now? When my father and the Solovyovs are actively trying to kill us?”

“A single day,” I correct him. “One day of pretending we’re just parents who love their daughter. One day for you to experience something normal with Sofiya.” I pause, leaning against the counter thoughtfully. “One day for you to make the memories you never got to have as a child.”

His jaw clenches, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Maybe an unfair nerve, but a nerve nonetheless.

As big and tough and tattooed as he may be, Vincent Akopov is still the motherless boy who never built sandcastles or splashed in waves. The child of violence who grew into a man of violence—but he could still be something else for his daughter.

If he chooses the light instead of the darkness.

“It’s a security risk,” he says, but it lacks conviction.

“Compared to my meeting with Carver? This is nothing.” I reach up to touch his stubbled cheek. “Please, Vince. Let me give you this. Let me give us this.”

His hand covers mine, pressing it harder against his face. “One day,” he finally agrees. “With triple security and emergency protocols in place.”

I rise on tiptoes to kiss him, tasting the surrender on his lips. “Thank you.”

The Hamptons property sits isolated on a private stretch of beach. Waves crash against pristine sand just steps from the deck.

Vince carries Sofiya as I spread blankets near the water’s edge, close enough to hear the rhythm of waves but far enough to keep our baby safe.

Armed men patrol the perimeter, nearly invisible among the dunes and surrounding forest. Arkady sits on the deck with binoculars in one hand and a sniper rifle in the other, scanning the horizon.

All necessary precautions.

But for now, I choose not to see them.

Instead, I watch Vince lower himself to the blanket with Sofiya cradled against his chest. His eyes gaze out at the infinite blue of sky and sea with the wonder of someone seeing colors for the first time.

“When was the last time you went to a beach?” I ask.

He shakes his head like I’m better off not knowing. “I’ve been to beaches. Usually for business. Sometimes for disposal.”

“But never just to… be?” I press.

“No.” He touches the sand beside him, letting grains filter through his fingers. “My mother wanted to take me, once. Had it all planned. But my father had other ideas about how a boy becomes a man.”

The shadow that crosses his face tells me everything I need to know about those “ideas.”

“Well,” I say, keeping my voice light, “Sofiya’s first real beach day is yours, too, then.”

I reach for our daughter so that Vince has no choice but to lie here and relax. He’s tense at first, like I figured he would be.

But as the hours pass, something in him uncoils.

He removes his shoes, then his shirt. Lets the sun touch skin that rarely sees daylight. Walks to the water’s edge and stands in the surf, face tilted toward the horizon with an expression of such unexpected peace that my heart cracks open.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s changing.

When Sofiya wakes from her nap, fussy and curious, Vince carries her to the water. He holds her tiny feet above the foam as waves tickle her toes. Her startled laughter pierces the air—a sound so pure it feels damn near blasphemous against the backdrop of our blood-soaked lives.

And Vince… Vince smiles. Not the predatory grin that precedes violence or the satisfied smirk after taking my body.

This is a genuine smile. It transforms his face into something almost boyish.

“She likes it,” he notes, wonder creeping into his voice.

“Of course she does.” I join them at the water’s edge. “She’s fearless. Like her father.”

His eyes meet mine over Sofiya’s dark head. “Like her mama, you mean.”

We build sandcastles after lunch—or rather, I show Vince how it’s done while he meticulously constructs something that looks more like a fortress than a fairytale. Sofiya watches from her shaded blanket, occasionally gurgling encouragement.

“You’re building walls again,” I tease with a nod toward his creation.

He looks down at the moat he’s digging. “Force of habit.”

“Try something else,” I suggest. “Build something just for the joy of it, not for protection.”

He studies me for a long moment, then deliberately collapses the walls he’s built, starting fresh with wet sand that he shapes into something rounder, softer.

“Better?” he asks.

I lean over to kiss him, tasting salt on his lips. “Perfect.”

As afternoon fades toward evening, we swim together in the shallow water. Vince holds Sofiya while I float beside them and watch, unable to stop myself from grinning like a fool. Her tiny hands pat his face with complete trust.

That’s the freeze frame that I’ll die remembering: five pink, tiny, chubby fingers splayed out across a scarred, bearded jaw, both wet with ocean droplets glowing in the sunlight.

Hang it in the fucking Louvre.

“Thank you,” Vince says quietly as we trek back to the blankets. “For today.”

I take his free hand. “It doesn’t have to be just today, you know. This is what we’re fighting for—the chance to have more days like this.”

He nods, but I see the shadow return to his eyes. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last long, this peace. I guess I just kinda fooled myself into thinking maybe it would.

“One perfect day is more than most people get.”

I want to argue, to insist we deserve more. But I hold my tongue. For now, this day is enough. This stolen slice of normality amid chaos.

We eat dinner on the deck as twilight descends. Sofiya dozes in her portable bassinet. Vince touches me throughout the meal—my hand, my knee, the nape of my neck—as if reassuring himself I’m still here. That we all are.

When he kisses me as the first stars appear, I taste something different on his lips. Not possession or punishment or power.

Gratitude.

We put Sofiya to bed in the master suite, her bassinet stationed within arm’s reach beside the king-sized bed. Vince’s eyes never leave her as she drifts to sleep.

“I never knew I could feel this way,” he confesses in the half-dark. “Like my heart lives outside my body.”

“That’s parenthood,” I tell him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Terrifying, isn’t it?”

“More terrifying than anything I’ve ever done.” His arm slides around my waist. “And I’ve done some terrifying shit, Rowan.”

We stand there watching our daughter sleep until Vince turns to me, his hands finding my hips. “And now, I think it’s time to properly thank you for today.”

The look in his eyes sends heat pooling between my thighs. Despite the soreness from last night’s rough treatment, my body responds instantly.

“I’m listening,” I whisper.

His fingers find the ties of my sundress. “No, you’re not. You’re talking.” He tugs, and the fabric falls away. “And what I want right now is to make you completely incapable of speech.”

I should be exhausted. Should still be recovering from the punishment he inflicted last night.

But as Vince lowers me to the bed, his mouth tracing the constellation of marks he left on my skin, all I feel is hunger. This time is different.

Last night was claiming.

Tonight is worship.

He kisses every bruise he created, every fingerprint branded into my flesh. Whispers apologies against each mark before reclaiming it with his mouth.

When he spreads my thighs, I’m already soaked for him.

“Still sore?” he asks.

“Yes.” I wind my fingers into his hair. “Do it anyway.”

His smile is pure sin in the moonlight. “So demanding.”

He takes his time with me, using his mouth and hands to build me toward a stuttering, drooling orgasm. My body, still sensitive from the night before, responds to the lightest touch.

Only when I’m post-orgasmic and limp does he enter me. It’s slow and soft and his eyes skewer mine the whole time.

“You were wrong earlier, you know. This is what I’m fighting for. Not territory. Not power. This. You. Her. Us.”

I wrap my legs around him, drawing him deeper. “Then don’t lose sight of it. Don’t become the monster they want you to be.”

He drives into me harder, as if trying to imprint the words on my body. “Sometimes, being a monster is the only way to protect what I love.”

I cup his face and make him look at me. “Then be my monster. Be Sofiya’s monster. Not theirs.”

Something breaks in his heart—sandcastle walls falling. He buries his face in my neck as his rhythm falters, his breath hot against my skin.

“Yours,” he agrees, voice raw. “Always yours.”

We come together, my body clenching around him as he empties himself inside me.

For precious seconds, the world narrows to just this—our bodies joined, our breath mingled, our hearts beating against each other.

Reality can wait. Just for tonight.

Vince is still inside me when the knock interrupts—three sharp raps on the bedroom door.

He reacts instantly, pulling out and reaching for the gun on the nightstand. I scramble for the robe hanging nearby. My heart thumps as fight-or-flight chemicals flood my system.

“Stay with Sofiya,” Vince orders.

Arkady’s voice comes through the door. “Sir, we have visitors at the perimeter. They’re asking for you.”

Vince cracks the door, gun still ready. “Who?”

“Daniil Petrov and Anastasia Kuznetsov.”

The tension in Vince’s shoulders shifts from lethal to merely wary. “What the fuck do they want?”

“They didn’t say. But, Vin—” Arkady hesitates. “They don’t look so good. Anastasia especially.”

Vince curses as he pulls on pants. “Bring them to the main house. Full search protocols. And double the perimeter sweep—this could be a distraction.”

I’m already dressing, moving to check on Sofiya, who hasn’t even bothered to wake up to check on the mayhem. “I’m coming with you.”

“No, you’re—” Vince begins, then stops himself. Reconsiders. “Stay behind me at all times.”

We move through the darkened house like ghosts, Vince leading with his weapon drawn. At the entrance to the great room, he pauses and motions for me to wait while he assesses the situation.

I peek around his shoulder to see Daniil and Anastasia standing in the center of the room. Armed men surround them. Anastasia leans heavily against Daniil, her elegant features marred by a swollen, bruised eye. Blood stains the front of her blouse.

Daniil hardly looks better. His left arm hangs at an unnatural angle. A gash across his forehead crusts with dried blood.

When Anastasia sees us, the relief in her eyes is palpable. She straightens up, summoning dignity despite her injuries.

“Forgive the intrusion,” she mumbles. “But I don’t think we had much of a choice.”

Vince doesn’t lower his weapon. “Explain yourselves.”

Daniil’s eyes find Vince’s. “They know about us. Both families. And they’ve decided to solve two problems at once.”

The perfect day dissolves like a sandcastle caught in the tide, reality rushing back with brutal force. I step forward, ignoring Vince’s warning glance.

“What happened?” I ask Anastasia, woman to woman.

She has to lick her lips and swallow before she can talk. “My father caught us together. And then—” She swallows again, hard. “Grigor’s men were waiting. As if they knew.”

“A setup,” Vince concludes. “Coordinated between the families.”

“If they’re working together to eliminate us,” Daniel says, wincing as he shifts his injured arm, “what do you think they have planned for you three?”

I feel Vince’s entire body harden with renewed tension. So much for a happy beach day.

“Welcome to our family vacation,” I say with bitter humor. “Looks like you arrived just in time for the real party to begin.”