Then, dear God in Heaven help me.
Because she reveals a second, much larger pair.
Also bright pink.
And also kitten-faced.
Grigory nearly spits his drink across the room. “Oh, wow,” he mutters, trying—and failing because he doesn’t try very hard—not to laugh.
Sofia looks up at me, entirely earnest. “They’re for you to wear, Viktor. The left kitten is called Mr. Snufflefloof, and the right kitten is called Sugarpuff Princess.”
My eyes are as wide as saucers, and all I can do is croak a strangled sound in reply.
While Matvey, that fucker, nearly chokes on his fucking donut.
“We can wear our new kitty slippers together, Viktor,” Sofia carries on. “They’re soft. You don’t like loud footsteps either.”
And her words hit me harder than any bullet ever has.
Because she’s right. I can’t stand loud noises in the house—the echo of boots on tile, the scrape of chairs. I never told her that, but somehow, this little girlnoticed.She noticed that I’m the same as her in so many ways.
“It’s so that your feet can bequiettoo, Viktor. So that you don’t have to be afraid of your own footsteps.”
I feel something twist painfully in my chest. “You did that…for me?”
Again, she nods.
“Alright,” I say gruffly, taking the slippers. “But if anyone laughs,” I say, shooting a scowl on steroids at Grigory and Matvey, “I’ll bury them in the garden.”
Sofia squeals with delight as I slide the ludicrous things onto my feet.
They’re soft. Ridiculously soft. And the kitten faces stare up at me like they know exactly how far I’ve fallen from my fierce reputation.
After dinner that evening, I wear them still, pink kittens and all, while Sofia gets out a jigsaw puzzle for us to do together in the rec room.
My soldiers try to keep straight faces as they walk past, their eyes flicking down to my feet.
“Nice…footwear, Vik,” Nikolai snorts.
I narrow my eyes. “You like them? I’ll get you a pair.”
Sofia giggles, delighted.
And I realize there’s not a single thing in the world I wouldn’t wear if it meant keeping this little girl beaming and happy in my home.
The following day, I still can’t stop thinking about Sofia’s gift for me, and I realize that I also want to do something special for this little girl. I stare at the corner of the room, arms crossed, trying to picture it. It needs to be quiet.Calm.A place where the world doesn’t feel so loud.
Sofia’s little face flashes in my mind. Her hands clamped over her ears the last time the guys got rowdy during a card game. She didn’t cry. She just shut down. And that gutted me more than any scream could have.
So, I do what any man who’s terrible with words but decent with his hands would do. I shop for supplies. And then I build.
The wooden frame goes up first. I shape turrets at the top of the frame, so that it looks like a castle, and it’s simple, sturdy, and just right for Sofia’s size. I attach thick, dark fabric onto the frame to block out light, tacking it neatly so there are no dangling edges to trip her.
I crouch inside to check the space, and then I start layering it. Soft pillows in a soothing color, a weighted blanket on top of a cozy beanbag, and a small nightlight shaped like a sleeping cat. The finishing touch is a row of stuffed cats I got from the toy store, their cute, fluffy faces staring up at me as I line them up carefully like a little family—because Sofia likes her toysjust so.
Finally, I make a flagpole for Sofia’s den, and attach a pink flag decorated with the sheet of cat stickers I bought—tabbies, calicos, and black cats with big round eyes.
I step back and glance at Queenie, who’s crouched under the table, her head to one side and her eyes wide as if she’s thinking that she might be missing out. She likes to go outside each day and lie in the sun. But sometimes, when she’s feeling stressed or overwhelmed, she wants to stay inside and snuggle up in a cozy space, although I know she then misses the sunshine and yard.
