“Your Russian has gotten better.” “I’ve been studying.” Hoping. Dreaming. He wiped away a few tears while I clung to him, refusing to ever let go. “That’ll help,” he said coarsely. “Why?” I asked, my tears abating. “Because you’re coming home with me.” I raised a brow. “As your captive?” That villainous look so akin to him touched his eyes, and then he said three words that stopped my heart dead in its tracks. “Kak moya zhena.” As my wife.
