Gilded in Lies – Extended Epilogue
Irina
Five Month Later
The spring air is soft, smelling of wet earth and the first green buds on the oaks.
I’m sitting on the outdoor terrace of the estate, a cup of chamomile tea warming my hands, my legs curled up under a heavy wool blanket. From the lawn below, the sound of laughter drifts up, a high, childish giggle followed by a low, grunted roar that I’d recognize anywhere.
Oleg is running across the grass, holding a wooden toy plane above his head, his small legs pumping as he tries to outrun his father. Mikhail is chasing him, his bare feet heavy on the lawn, his arms outstretched like a monster in a bedtime story.
“I’m going to eat you, kid!” Mikhail roars, his voice a rough, playful rumble.
“You can’t catch me, Dad!” Oleg screams, his face bright and flushed as he takes a sharp turn near the rose bushes. “I’m too fast!”
Dad. The word still makes a soft, sweet pressure expand in my chest every single time I hear it. It took three months of quiet nights, of Mikhail sitting on the edge of his bed showing him how to clean his old wooden toys, and of silent, heavy reassurance before Oleg finally let the word slip. Now, he says it like he’s been saying it his whole life.
Mikhail lunges, scoop-tackling Oleg into his arms and lifting him high above his shoulders. Oleg shrieks with laughter, his small hands grabbing Mikhail’s dark hair as they both collapse onto the grass.
“You cheated,” Oleg pants, his chin resting on Mikhail’s shoulder.
“I didn’t cheat. I strategically cut the perimeter,” Mikhail grunts, his hand patting the boy’s back.
I let out a soft, happy sigh, taking a sip of my tea.
The glass doors of the terrace slide open, and Calina steps out.
She’s dressed in her usual black leather jacket and dark jeans, her silver hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks striking, beautiful in the way only a Morozov can be, but there is a sharp, dangerous tension in her shoulders today. She doesn’t look at the lawn. She walks straight to the stone railing, her fingers gripping the granite, her eyes fixed on the gray skyline of the city.
“You’re quiet today, Calina,” I say, setting my tea down. “Milana said you skipped the family lunch yesterday, even if Konstantin was around.”
“I was… busy,” she says. Her voice is a cool, flat rasp, lacking her usual dry humor. “I… I’ll be back.”
Before I can say anything else, she disappears down the steps, her leather jacket a dark streak against the spring green of the garden. I watch her go, a cold, familiar prickle of unease crawling up my spine. Calina is the quietest of the siblings, the one who likes the knives and the shadows, and right now, she looks like she’s about to light a match.
She’s got her own monster to fight, I think, a small sigh escaping my lips.
The sound of steps on the terrace steps breaks my thoughts.
Mikhail walks up, his gray t-shirt covered in grass stains, his face flushed and sweating. He’s carrying Oleg on his hip, the boy’s head resting sleepily against his shoulder. Oleg’s eyes are half-closed, his golden-brown hair damp against his forehead.
“He’s out,” Mikhail grunts, setting the boy down on the outdoor sofa and pulling the wool blanket over his shoulders. “Ran him into the dirt.”
“You run everyone into the dirt, Mikhail,” I say, standing up and wrapping my arms around his waist. I press my face against his chest, the smell of grass, sweat, and warm skin instantly filling my senses.
Mikhail’s arms lock around my waist, pulling me flush against him, his chin resting on the top of my head. “Where is Calina?”
“She just left. She looked like she was about to put her foot through someone’s skull.” I shake my head: “She’s dealing with something, I just hope she’s okay.”
“She’s got the teeth for it. If anyone tries to touch her, Artyom and I will handle it.”
I look up at him, my blue eyes tracking the lines of his face. He looks settled today. The rage is still there, just beneath the skin, but it’s quiet, harnessed by the family we’ve built in the ruins.
“Mikhail,” I say, my hand coming up to touch his collarbone.
“What?”
“I think we should have another one,” I whisper, my voice a quiet, provocative murmur against his skin.
Mikhail freezes. His blue eyes narrow as he looks down at my face, his grip on my waist tightening until I can barely draw a breath. The heat in his gaze is instantaneous—a dark, possessive fire that makes my blood run hot.
“Another child?” he rasps, his voice dropping into a rough, hungry register.
“Another child,” I say, a small, sassy grin touching my lips.
He doesn’t say a word. He just lifts me effortlessly, my boots leaving the stone floor of the terrace, and carries me toward the French doors of our suite. He kicks them shut behind us, the glass sliding into place with a quiet, final click that cuts off the sound of the garden.
Oleg is asleep on the sofa, the spring wind rustling the leaves of the oaks, and the city is quiet across the river.
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