I felt the baby kick against our joined hands and smiled. Every kick still felt like a small miracle. “Jack,” I said, testing the name again like I’d been doing for weeks now. “Maybe he doesn’t like the name Jack.”
Kirill’s hands stilled. Then he turned me around slowly, deliberately, his eyes sharp despite the softness of the moment. “You are naming our son after a whiskey?”
I grinned, couldn’t help it. The look on his face was worth every ounce of trouble I’d get for this. “You’re welcome.”
He squinted at me, jaw working like he was trying to decide if I was serious. I watched the gears turning behind those dark eyes, watched him try to figure out if this was a joke or if I’d actually committed to this insanity.
Then he rolled his sleeves up slowly, deliberately, the way he used to before he’d done something violent. Except now there was amusement dancing in his eyes, and I knew I’d crossed a line, the fun kind.
“Barbara.”
“Kirill.”
“Our son—”
“Will have a strong name,” I interrupted, pressing my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my hand. “Jack. Short. Powerful. American.”
“He is half-Russian,” Kirill countered, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that used to make me want to run. Now it just made me want to push harder.
“And half-stubborn as hell,” I shot back. “He’ll survive. Hell, with you as a father, he’ll survive anything.”
Kirill stared at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his jaw twitched, and I caught the corner of his mouth fighting a smile. Victory. Small, but sweet.
“We will discuss this later,” he said, but there was no real threat in it. Just resignation. Just acceptance that I’d probably already won this battle.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering longer than necessary, like he was memorizing the moment. Then he pulled back, gave me one last look that promised retribution later, and headed outside.
I watched him go, watched the way sunlight caught in his hair, the way his shoulders had lost that rigid tension he used to carry like armor. Three months of peace had done that. Three months of safety. Three months of us.
I followed him outside because I couldn’t help myself. Because even after everything, even after all the blood and violence and chaos, I still wanted to be near him. Still craved his presence like oxygen.
The mansion stretched out behind me, white and sprawling and nothing like the blood-soaked penthouse where this had all started. No ghosts here. No memories of violenceseeping through the walls. Just space. Just possibility. Just room to breathe.
Kirill had bought it outright, cash, no questions asked. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, a kitchen bigger than my old apartment, and enough land that our nearest neighbor was half a mile away. Privacy. Security. Peace.
Everything we’d killed for.
Outside, the yard was a riot of preparation.
Illyana and Hailey moved between the oak trees, stringing pale blue streamers that caught the breeze and twisted, ribbons of sky against green. They were laughing, actually laughing, and for a moment I just stood there and watched them. Two women who’d been through hell with me, who’d bled and fought and survived. Now here, hanging decorations for a baby shower like this was normal. Like we deserved this.
Maybe we did.
Illyana looked different too. Less sharp edges, more soft curves. She’d gained weight in a good way, filled out the gaunt hollows that violence had carved into her. Her hair was longer, pulled back in a ponytail that swung when she moved. She looked…happy. Content. Like she’d finally stopped waiting for the next fight.
And Hailey—God, Hailey looked like she’d found religion. She was practically glowing, all smiles and easy laughter, moving with a grace I’d never seen in her before. The haunted look was gone from her eyes, replaced by something lighter. Something hopeful.
We’d all changed. We’d all healed.
“Barbara!” Hailey called, waving me over enthusiastically. “Come tell Illyana the banner doesn’t need to be military-grade secure. It’s a baby shower, not a siege.”
“Old habits,” Illyana said without looking up from where she was tying off another knot with the precision of someonewho’d rigged explosives for a living. “Besides, if it falls, you’ll blame me.”
“It’s streamers,” Hailey argued, but she was smiling. “Not a load-bearing structure.”
I walked over, slower than I used to. The baby made everything slower, heavier, more deliberate. Every step was calculated now, every movement measured. I wasn’t complaining, but it was an adjustment.
“Let her secure it however she wants,” I said, reaching them. “If the wind takes it, we’ll never hear the end of it.”
