She reaches out and pats my hand softly. “Good.” And just like that, she settles back onto her pillows, nestling down as her eyes flutter closed.
I tuck the blanket around her shoulders and kiss her forehead.
For once, I don’t feel that black hole of danger looming over me in the shadows of the room.
For once, I don’t check over my shoulder before I switch off the lamp and leave my children to sleep.
For once, I simply breathe.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
VIKTOR
I’m back home now. Staying in bed all day, not being able to do much, is goddamn boring. Necessary, I know, but still boring.
The doctor has given me permission to go from the bed to the rec room couch. But that’s it. No gym. No work. No other activities. And Grigory and the others are enforcing this.
I’m wearing black joggers and a black T-shirt as I lie on the couch. Avelina bought me blue pinstripe pjs, but I refused to wear them. Just the color of them is enough to make my anxiety spike. No, plain black is the only color that keeps me calm and sane. So, that’s what I’ll be sticking to.
Queenie is curled up against my legs, her eyes half-lidded, one paw twitching as she dreams. She’s on two medications, which she takes twice daily with food. Same time. No variation. I set alarms. I have a tracker on my phone.
If someone had told me a few years ago that I’d pay what I paid for her surgery, I’d have rolled on the floor with laughter.
But Queenie matters.
To Avelina.
And to me.
And most importantly, to Sofia. She helps Sofia regulate when she’s anxious. The comforting weight of Queenie against her chest when things are too loud. The soft fur of the cat under her fingers when she’s stressed. It steadies her in a way I understand. And I’d burn every penny of Bratva money if it meant that one piece of this scary world was stable for this little girl.
Two weeks later, and I’m finally off bed rest. Thank the fucking Lord.
Sofia sits cross-legged on the rug in the den, staring at the little paper crown she made for herself last week. It tilts slightly to the left, one jewel sticker clinging on for dear life. Her lower lip trembles. “Hepromisedhe’d call,” she whispers.
Avelina crouches beside her and smooths a hand over her soft hair. “Sweetheart, I think he’s away for work. And sometimes, adults?—”
“Lie?” Sofia says flatly, her eyes glistening.
And I can tell that single word guts her mom. Avelina swallows hard before she stands and comes over to me. “This is the third birthday in a row he’s been away for work and forgotten her birthday, but this year it’s hitting harder,” she whispers in an anguished voice. “Sofia is seven today, and she’s old enough to remember promises and old enough to know when they’re broken.”
And after I try and fail to comfort Sofia, I head out, telling them both I’ll be back soon.
An hour later, I stand in the doorway.
Avelina’s jaw drops. “What on earth…?”
I stomp inside, feeling like a man enduring medieval torture. In one arm, I’m balancing a giant pink bakery box and a huge shiny giftbag. In the other, a bunch of pink balloons and a very sleepy cat dressed in a mini feather boa and pink tiara. And behind me trots Albert, also with a pink feather boa and a jeweled tiara askew on his furry head.
“Happy birthday, little bird,” I say, my deep voice at odds with this ridiculous scene.
Sofia’s head jerks up. Her eyes go as round as saucers. “Queenie and Albert look so cute!” she squeals, launching to her feet.
Queenie flicks her tail like she may be plotting my murder. Albert just plops down onto the rug, panting and looking pleased with himself.
“I thought,” I say stiffly, “that maybe Queenie and Albert could join us…for tea.” My face twitches like the words physically pain me, but I know this is what I need to do for this little girl. “A royal party. For a royal girl.”
Sofia gasps so loudly, I’m shocked she doesn’t pass out. “Really?”
