SAY YOU ARE MINE

He Makes Her Queen

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

Kieran adjusts his cuff. Black suit. Black shirt. Black tie. The bullet wound is hidden, but he moves slower. Controlled. Like a predator pretending not to be injured.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.”

We’re in the back of his Rolls-Royce. Moscow at midnight slides past tinted windows. But we’re not going to a gala. We’re going lower. Deeper.

To the basement of The Leviathan.

Bratva headquarters.

“You’re still healing.” My hand finds his. Squeezes. Three days since he woke up. Three days since I read the letter. Three days since he cried in my arms and I realized I’d die for him too.

“I’m healing because you said you were mine.” He turns his hand over. Laces our fingers. Stares at the black diamond on my finger like it’s a crown. “Now I need them to know it.”

The car stops. Doors open. Viktor is there. Plus twelve men. All armed. All looking at me different now. Not like a hostage. Like a bomb.

Kieran gets out first. Then offers me his hand.

I take it.

The Leviathan looks like a nightclub from the outside. Inside, it’s a cathedral. To sin. To power. To blood.

We descend. Stone stairs. Torches. It’s medieval. On purpose. To remind everyone what happens to traitors.

At the bottom: a room. Round. Stone walls. No windows. A table in the center. Twenty men sit around it. _Vor v Zakone_. Thieves-in-Law. The heads of the Bratva.

And they all stand when Kieran enters.

All except one.

Older. Scar down his face. Yakov. Kieran’s uncle. The man who was supposed to be _Pakhan_ before Kieran’s father died.

“So,” Yakov says. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t bow. “The boy brings his w***e to council.”

The room goes dead.

Kieran doesn’t flinch. He walks to the head of the table. Doesn’t sit. He pulls out the chair beside his. The right-hand chair. The _Pakhan’s_ consort chair. Empty for ten years since his mother died.

“Sit,” he tells me.

I sit.

Yakov laughs. “You’ve gone soft, nephew. She made you weak. First you take a bullet for a woman. Now you give her a seat at—”

Kieran moves.

One second he’s beside me. The next his gun is on the table. Pressed to Yakov’s forehead.

The clicks of twenty safeties turning off echo like thunder.

“Say it again,” Kieran says. Soft. Deadly. “Call her a w***e again. I dare you.”

Yakov’s face pales. But he doubles down. “She’s nothing! A street rat! You bought her to pay her brother’s—”

“She’s not nothing.” Kieran’s voice cuts him off. Ice. “She’s everything.”

He looks at me then. And the Devil of Moscow drops to one knee.

In front of the entire Bratva.

In front of guns. In front of blood. In front of men who’ve killed for less than disrespect.

Kieran Volkov kneels.

And takes my hand.

“Alina Sokolov,” he says. Loud. Clear. So the stone walls hear. So history hears. “You wore blue at the ballet. You gave a rose to a crying child. You work two jobs and still smile.”

The room is silent.

“You took my bullet. You read my letter. You kissed me back.”

His thumb strokes my knuckles.

“I am Kieran Volkov. _Pakhan_ of the Bratva. I own this city. I own these men. I own death.”

He brings my hand to his lips. Kisses the ring.

“And I am yours.”

He stands. Turns to the room. To his men. To his enemies.

“On your knees.”

The order is quiet. But it’s not a request.

One by one, they drop.

_Thud._ Viktor. First. Head bowed.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._ The rest. Until only Yakov stands.

Kieran’s gun is still on him.

“Kneel,” Kieran says. “Or I paint these walls with your brains and call it redecorating.”

Yakov looks at me. Really looks. At the red dress. At the black diamond. At the blood he knows I’d shed for his nephew.

He kneels.

Kieran nods. Once.

“This is your _Koroleva_,” he tells the room. _Queen._ “Your Queen. You disrespect her, you disrespect me. You touch her, you die. You look at her wrong, I take your eyes.”

He looks at me. And his face softens. Just for me.

“She speaks for me. She commands you. Her word is my word. Her enemy is my enemy.”

He pulls me to my feet. Turns me to face them. His hands on my waist. Claiming. Crowning.

“Say you understand.”

Twenty voices. As one. “_Da, Pakhan._”

“Not to me.” His lips brush my ear. “To her.”

Twenty heads bow lower.

“_Da, Koroleva._” _Yes, Queen._

The power in the room shifts. I feel it. Like lightning. Like I’m holding the sky.

Kieran turns me back to him. His hands frame my face.

“You’re not my prisoner anymore, Alina.” His voice is for me alone. “You’re not my debt. You’re not my fake.”

His forehead touches mine.

“You’re my wife. If you’ll have me. For real. Forever. No year limit. No money. Just you. Just me.”

My heart stops. Then races.

“Kieran—”

“Say you are mine,” he whispers. “One last time. Not because I bought you. Not because I bled for you. Because you choose me. Say it, and I’ll burn this world down to build you a better one.”

I look at him. At the Devil who kneels. Who cries. Who kills. Who loves.

I rise up on my toes. Kiss him. In front of his kingdom.

“I am yours, Kieran Volkov,” I say against his lips. “Your Queen. Your wife. Your always.”

The room explodes. Not in gunfire.

In cheers.

_“Koroleva! Koroleva! Koroleva!”_

Kieran smiles. Real smile. For the first time since I met him.

Then he kisses me like he’s drowning and I’m air.

*END CHAPTER 6*