"Tell me," he said simply.
So I did. The words came out jumbled, out of order, mixed with Russian when English failed me. I told him about finding her in the corner, thumb hovering near her mouth, so small and broken that something in my chest had cracked open. About the kittens and how she'd transformed when she held them—soft and wondering, like she'd forgotten gentleness existed. Aboutthe word "Daddy" hanging between us like something sacred and terrifying. How I'd held her while she slept and felt the monster in my chest go quiet for the first time in years.
"She needs someone to take care of her," I finished, staring at my hands because looking at my brother felt impossible. "And I want to be that person, but Kolya—" The childhood nickname slipped out. "I don't know how. I know how to break things. How to destroy. How to make people fear me. I don't know how to build something safe for someone who's already been shattered."
Silence stretched between us. Then Nikolai pushed the journal across the desk.
"Sophie and I have been navigating this for months," he said quietly. "I made mistakes at first. Thought it was about control—giving orders, setting rules, expecting obedience because I was Pakhan and that's what people did."
I opened the journal. His precise handwriting filled pages—notes, observations, rules they'd negotiated together. Safe words I recognized from overheard conversations. Boundaries I'd never imagined my calculating brother considering. Lists of Sophie's triggers, her comfort items, what she needed when she was small versus when she was big.
"It's not about control," he continued, and there was something in his voice I'd rarely heard—vulnerability mixed with hard-won wisdom. "That's the mistake everyone makes. Control is what you take. This is what you earn. You're creating safety—structure she can trust because you've proven yourself worthy of providing it."
"How do I prove that?"
"By putting her needs above your wants. Every single time, especially when it costs you." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "By being absolutely consistent—if you say something will happen, it happens. No exceptions. By listening when she's bigand protecting her when she's small. By letting her test you and holding the line even when every instinct screams to give in."
I turned pages, seeing contracts they'd written together, check-in protocols, detailed negotiations about what Sophie needed when she regressed. There were notes in the margins—adjustments they'd made, things that hadn't worked, apologies Nikolai had written to himself about mistakes he wouldn't repeat.
"What if I fuck this up?" The question escaped before I could stop it. "What if I'm too rough, too intense, too—"
"You will fuck it up." His certainty stopped my spiral, but not the way I expected. "You'll misjudge something, push too hard, not push hard enough. The question isn't whether you'll make mistakes. It's what you do after." He held my gaze. "You apologize. You learn. You do better. You prove that your mistakes don't make you unsafe—they make you human."
I stared at the journal, at these careful notes about something tender and trusting and everything I'd never thought I could deserve.
"The violence in you," Nikolai added, "the capacity for controlled destruction—she needs that too. Not aimed at her, but aimed at everything that might threaten her. Being her Daddy doesn't mean becoming soft. It means being strong enough to be gentle. Dangerous enough that your gentleness means something."
I stood, journal clutched in my hand like a lifeline. "Thank you."
"Kostya." His voice stopped me at the door. "This is good. You've been nothing but violence for too long. You needed something to protect that wasn't already protected. Someone who needs the specific kind of safety only you can provide."
I nodded, understanding settling in my chest beside the constant hunger. This wasn't about becoming someone else. Itwas about using everything I was for something better than blood.
The journal felt heavy in my hands as I walked back through the compound. Not with weight, but with possibility.
BeforeIcouldofferMaya words about trust, I needed to show her actions.
I spent three hours with Maks tracking down every patient we could identify from Maya's destroyed clinic. Cross-referencing the names she'd mentioned with medical supply deliveries, following digital breadcrumbs to find the people who'd trusted her with their worst moments. By noon, I had twelve confirmed contacts and arrangements made with Dr. Adaora Okonkwo—a physician in Sunset Park who ran a clinic similar to Maya's, asking few questions and accepting cash from people who couldn't risk hospitals.
The tech room door was open when I finally went to find her. She was at Maks's auxiliary desk, completely absorbed in whatever horror she was transcribing today. Her hair was twisted up and held with a pencil, loose strands framing her face. Sophie's sweater—the one with the hole she'd chewed—hung off one shoulder, revealing the sharp line of her collarbone. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes. She looked exhausted and focused and so fucking beautiful it made my chest ache.
She startled when I entered, fingers stuttering on the keys. Her eyes darted to mine, then away, and I could read the uncertainty there—confusion about what we were now, what last night had meant, why I'd held her while she slept and then kept careful distance all morning.
"I have something for you," I said, setting the folder beside her laptop. "Your patients."
Her brow furrowed. "My patients?"
"Open it."
She did, slowly, like it might contain something that would hurt her. In a way, it did—but not the way she expected. I watched her eyes move across the pages, watched understanding dawn as she recognized the names.
Her hands had started trembling. She turned pages with increasing speed, finding name after name, patient after patient—people she'd worried about, felt guilty for abandoning, probably dreamed about in the few hours of sleep she managed to steal.
"How did you—" Her voice cracked.
"You mentioned being worried about them. I listened."
She looked up at me then, and something in her expression broke open. Not sadness—something rawer. The look of someone who'd stopped believing anyone would ever hear the things she didn't say aloud, confronted with evidence that someone had.
