Illyana smirked, satisfied. “Smart woman.”
Hailey rolled her eyes, but couldn’t fight her smile. “You two are impossible.”
“We’re thorough,” I corrected, watching Illyana test the knot with a sharp tug. “There’s a difference.”
We fell into an easy rhythm then, the kind that came from knowing each other’s demons. From surviving them together. Illyana finished securing the streamers while Hailey adjusted the ones already hanging, and I supervised, one hand on my belly, the other shading my eyes from the sun.
The table near the gazebo was already set up, and it was perfect. Finger sandwiches arranged in neat rows, lemonades sweating in glass pitchers, ice slowly melting in the heat. And the cupcakes—Jesus, the cupcakes. Blue frosted ones with little teddy bears on top, and pink ones with tiny roses, sitting side by side like they were hedging bets.
Just in case the doctor had been wrong. Just in case Jack turned out to be a Jacqueline.
I didn’t care either way. Boy or girl, this baby was ours. This baby was proof that something good could come from the ashes. That people like us—people with blood on our hands and violence in our pasts—could still create something beautiful.
The air smelled like fresh grass and honeysuckle, with vanilla buttercream drifting from the cupcakes. No copper tang of blood. No acrid smoke from gunfire. No fear. No adrenaline. No survival instinct screaming at me to run.
Just this. Just peace. Just home.
“You’re doing it again,” Hailey said, bumping my shoulder gently. “That thing where you space out and look all contemplative.”
“I’m appreciating,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Appreciating what? The cupcakes?”
“Everything.” I gestured broadly at the yard, the decorations, the two of them. “This. Us. The fact that we’re standing here planning a baby shower instead of a funeral.”
Illyana’s expression softened. “We earned this, Barbara.”
“Did we?” I asked, and I wasn’t being rhetorical. “After everything we did? After everyone we—”
“Yes,” Illyana interrupted firmly. “We did. We fought. We survived. We protected each other. That counts for something.”
Hailey nodded, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “We’re not those people anymore. We’re better. And this?” She gestured at my belly. “This is proof.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out all the blood, all the bodies, all the choices that had led us here. But looking at them—at their faces, their smiles, their genuine happiness—I couldn’t. Because maybe they were right. Maybe we did deserve this.
Maybe survival wasn’t just about living. Maybe it was about learning to live with what you’d done.
I moved to the gazebo where Kirill stood, a glass of whiskey in his hand despite it being barely ten in the morning. He was staring out at the fields, at the rolling green that stretched endlessly, bordered by white fencing that looked likesomething out of a movie. A life I’d never thought I’d have. A life I’d killed for.
“You’re thinking too hard,” I said, stepping up beside him.
He glanced at me, and his eyes softened immediately. That was new too—the way he looked at me now. Like I was something precious. Something worth protecting. Something he’d die for without hesitation.
“I’m thinking about how we got here,” he said quietly.
“Blackmail and bloodshed,” I said lightly, but the weight of it sat heavy between us like an uninvited guest. “Murder and mayhem. The usual love story.”
“Barbara.”
“Kirill.”
He set the glass down on the railing with deliberate care, then turned to face me fully. His hands found my hips, pulled me close despite the belly between us. “I do not regret it.”
“Which part?” I asked, even though I knew. Even though I could see the answer in his eyes.
“Any of it.” His voice was firm, certain, carrying the weight of absolute conviction. “Every choice that led to this moment. To you. To our son. I would do it all again. Every kill. Every risk. Every moment I thought I might lose you.”
My throat tightened. “Even the parts where we almost died?”
