Because in every picture, from every angle, in every feature of her little face, I see him. And I know, with a certainty that makes my blood turn to ice, that Makari Medvedev will figure it out. He’s a dangerous man and a smart one.
My mom, who has been looking at the photos over our shoulders, gives me a one-armed hug. “You did good, Rox,” she murmurs.
It should reassure me, but all I feel is the pounding of my heart and the draining worry that The Bear might be furious once he puts the pieces together.
Chapter 12
Makari
The estate is quiet in the early mornings. It’s the only time of day I can hear my own thoughts without someone needing something from me. The woods outside my private windows look washed in silver; the sun hasn’t fully cleared the ridge yet, and the whole property feels suspended between darkness and daylight.
I stand at the counter in my private kitchen, pouring coffee into a heavy ceramic mug while reading through a list of overnight security updates. A shipment is late. A contact in Montreal is asking questions he shouldn’t be asking. Dima wants approval to hire two additional groundskeepers. I make notes where needed and ignore the rest.
My shoulder still aches from the storm. A lingering reminder of that day. Of Roxy.
I haven’t seen her for a week.
Not for lack of trying—she’s made an art of avoidance. She still sends reports, still answers any direct instruction within minutes, still stays late at the office. But she keeps her distance. If I enter a room, she finds a reason to leave it. If I walk into the operations center, she manages to be on another floor.
I’m not sure if she’s afraid of me again, or afraid of herself. The last thing I want is for her to fear me.
The memory of the cabin sits like a wood stove under my ribs, suffocating as the morning grows warmer. Her breath. Her body arched into mine. Her mouth saying my name as if she’d been holding it in her lungs for years. Her curves, so thick and welcoming under my hands.
I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
Then, my office door bursts open.
A tiny girl—maybe six, maybe seven—marches inside with the confidence of someone who owns the place. Her brown hair is up in a crooked ponytail, her backpack is far too large for her little body, and her face is bright with curiosity.
She sees me, freezes, then tilts her head.
“Are you The Bear?” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Mommy says I shouldn’t go near The Bear. Are you him?”
I blink.
She blinks back, waiting.
Before I can respond, heavy footsteps pound down the hallway. “Child!Malen’kiy!You can’t just—shef, I’m sorry! She was too fast for me!”
Dima skids into the doorway, out of breath and looking like he’s aged a decade in the last thirty seconds. His shirt is wrinkled. His expression is mortified. The little girl is grinning up at him as if he’s Santa.
I stare at the child. Then at Dima.
A laugh breaks from me before I can stop it; it startles even me.
Dima crosses his arms, and the little girl adjusts her backpack. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” I say.
“No, it really isn’t,” he grumbles. “She escaped while I was checking her mother’s paperwork and?—”
“I didn’t escape,” the girl declares, planting her hands on her hips. “You said you wouldn’t play hide and seek, so I went exploring.”
Dima groans softly, looking spent and harassed.
I lean back against the counter, arms folded, studying this fearless little intruder who has managed to break into the most restricted part of a Bratva estate without showing the slightest trace of fear.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
