IheardherlaughterbeforeI opened the door—real laughter, something bright and unguarded that made my chest tight.
I paused with my hand on the doorknob, listening. She was talking to the kittens in that soft voice people used with things they loved. Something about Zmeya being a terror and Malyshbeing brave. Normal morning conversation between a woman and her cats. The kind of thing that happened in real homes with real families.
When I opened the door, the scene that greeted me almost brought me to my knees.
Maya sat cross-legged on my bed wearing my t-shirt and nothing else, her hair a mess of tangles that somehow looked perfect. Zmeya was attacking the feather wand with psychotic intensity while Malysh crept closer, drawn by his sister's boldness. Morning light streamed through the window, turning everything golden, and Maya looked . . .
Fuck. She looked like everything I'd never known I wanted.
"You're back," she said, glancing up with a smile that faltered slightly. Because she was too smart, too observant. "What's wrong?"
The question hung between us. I could lie completely, pretend the meeting had been routine. But she'd know. Could probably read the tension in my shoulders, the way my hands flexed at my sides. So I went with partial truth. The kind that would keep her alert but not terrified.
I closed the door, leaned against it. "Brand's escalated."
Her hand stilled on the feather wand. Zmeya meowed in protest, batting at the frozen toy. "Escalated how?"
"He's actively looking for you. Put word out through his networks." I kept my voice even, matter-of-fact. Didn't mention the bounty amount or the "intact" specification. "Maks intercepted some communications. We're handling it."
She set down the toy, and both kittens immediately pounced on it. "Define 'handling it.'"
"We're accelerating our timeline. Going to use the evidence you gathered to bring federal attention to his operation." I moved to the bed, sat on the edge. Not touching her yet, but close enough. "But until then, you need to stay inside the compound."
I watched her process this. Saw the moment medical-Maya took over from scared-Maya. Her spine straightened, chin lifted, and she became the woman who'd performed surgery in a basement veterinary clinic without flinching.
"How can I help?" she asked.
"You've already helped. The evidence you gathered, the connections you documented—Maks is building a case that will destroy Brand's entire network."
"There's more I could do. I know his systems, his codes, the way he thinks—"
"Maya." I reached out, cupped her face in my hand. "Right now, the best thing you can do is stay safe. Let us handle the violence."
She leaned into my touch but her eyes stayed sharp. "You're not telling me everything."
I wasn't. Couldn't tell her about the photographs or the organ-trafficking angle or how close the net was closing. But I could give her something else. Something that might make the confinement bearable.
"Sophie wants to meet you," I said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "Properly. As a friend, not as the Pakhan's wife doing her duty."
Maya blinked at the shift. "Sophie? Nikolai's Sophie?"
"She's been asking about you. She . . ." I paused, trying to find words that wouldn't sound condescending or strange. "She understands the dynamic. The Daddy Dom thing. The Little side. She doesn't have anyone who gets that part of her."
"Oh." The word came out small, vulnerable.
"She has this room—a nursery, she calls it. Safe space where she can be little without judgment." I watched Maya's face carefully. "She wants to share it with you. Tomorrow afternoon, if you're interested."
Maya's eyes went wide, then bright with something that might have been tears. "She wants to—with me? But she doesn't even know me."
"She knows you're mine," I said simply. "That makes you family. And she knows you need what she needs. That's enough for Sophie."
I watched emotions flicker across Maya's face. Hope. Fear. Longing. Terror. All in the space of heartbeats.
"What if she doesn't actually like me?" Maya asked, and she sounded young. Lost. "What if I'm too much? Too broken? What if—"
I kissed her to stop the spiral. Soft but firm, grounding her in the present instead of the anxiety-future her brain was constructing. When I pulled back, her eyes had lost some of that wild edge.
"Sophie doesn't do anything she doesn't want to," I said. "Trust me, I've watched her tell Nikolai to fuck off in six languages. If she's inviting you, it's because she wants you there."
