"Perfect," I said, and meant it with every atom of my being.
"I'm so glad. You're welcome back anytime." She handed Nikolai a card. "We also have evening sessions, if that works better for your schedule. And themed playgroups once a month, if you're interested in community."
Community. Other Littles and their caregivers, all finding safety in this discrete building in Chelsea. The idea was appealing and terrifying in equal measure.
"We'll think about it," Nikolai said smoothly, pocketing the card. His hand found my lower back, guiding me toward the exit.
The Sunday afternoon sunlight hit like a physical force when we stepped outside. The real world with its traffic noise and strangers walking past and the constant low-level threat assessment my brain automatically ran. The bubble of the Garden Room was already fading, replaced by New York City's aggressive reality.
Nikolai's phone buzzed as we reached the car. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his entire body language shifted. The gentle Daddy who'd read me stories disappeared, replaced by something harder. Colder. The Pakhan rising to the surface like a predator scenting blood.
"It's Kostya," he said, his voice flat. "I need to take this."
He answered on the second ring. "Talk to me."
I couldn't hear Kostya's words, but I watched Nikolai's face go through a series of micro-expressions that my photographic memory cataloged automatically. Surprise. Concern. Angerbarely leashed. That particular tightness around his eyes that meant he was calculating contingencies at speed.
"When?" Nikolai asked, his free hand clenching into a fist. "How many photographs?" A pause. "No, we're in Chelsea. Be there in twenty minutes."
He ended the call, and when he looked at me, the expression was pure Pakhan. Clinical. Assessing. Already running threat scenarios and protective protocols.
"What's wrong?" I asked, though I already knew it was bad. You didn't look like that for good news.
"The Belyaevs," he said, voice tight. "Kostya's informant came through with intelligence. They've been watching us. Have photographs. From Brighton Beach yesterday."
My stomach dropped somewhere near my feet. Yesterday. The beach. When I'd been little in public, building sandcastles, letting Nikolai read to me under the umbrella. When we'd thought we were safe because we'd been careful.
"How much did they see?" The question came out smaller than I intended.
His jaw clenched. "Enough. They know you're important to me now. Not just an asset from the auction. Not just a tactical acquisition. They know you're—"
He didn't finish, but he didn't need to. They knew I was his weak spot. His vulnerability.
Daddy was in danger.
Chapter 14
Nikolai
Thewarroomwasbuzzing with activity. Twenty minutes since Kostya's call, and I'd secured Sophie in my bedroom suite with instructions to lock the door and not open it for anyone but me.
Maks spread the photographs across the table like a prosecutor building a case. Eight prints, professional quality, the kind of clarity that came from expensive equipment and patient stalking. My hands wanted to shake. I kept them flat against the mahogany, fingers spread, controlling the tremor through sheer force of will.
The first photo showed Sophie at Brighton Beach, kneeling in the sand with a plastic shovel. Her body language was unmistakably Little—the way she held the shovel in both hands, the concentration on her face, the complete unselfconsciousness of her posture. An adult playing at sandcastles looked different. Performative. This was genuine regression, and the photographer had captured it with documentary precision.
"Professional surveillance," I said, my voice flat despite the fury building in my chest. "Two-man team minimum. One shooting, one spotting."
"That's our assessment," Kostya confirmed from his position against the wall. Arms crossed, jaw tight, violence barely leashed. He'd kill for this. Would enjoy it. But we needed information first, retribution second.
The next three photos were variations on the same theme. Sophie building her castle, her thumb occasionally finding her mouth between construction phases. Me watching her from the blanket, the softness in my expression that I thought I'd been hiding. A shot of us at the water's edge, her holding my hand while waves lapped at our feet, her looking up at me with complete trust.
Maks pulled up digital files on his laptop. "These are the metadata markers our informant intercepted. Timestamps show they've been following her since she left the auction house. Maybe before."
Since the auction. Since the night I'd claimed her during the Belyaev attack. They'd been watching this entire time, documenting everything, waiting for something useful.
The fifth photo made my chest constrict. Sophie under the beach umbrella, coloring in her book while I read to her. Her thumb was in her mouth. Her eyes were soft with regression. She looked maybe four years old, lost in the safety I'd promised to provide. The photographer had caught the exact moment when Little Sophie was most visible, most vulnerable.
"They knew what they were documenting," I said quietly.
