"A nursery," Maya said softly, like she was testing the word. "With someone who understands."
She'd been alone with this need for so long. Hiding it, probably ashamed of it, definitely afraid of anyone finding out. The same way I'd been alone with my violence until I learned it could protect instead of just destroy.
"You don't have to decide now," I said. "But the offer's there. Tomorrow, two o'clock, if you want."
She nodded slowly, processing. Then Zmeya chose that moment to launch herself at my lap, tiny claws finding purchase in unfortunate places. I grunted, lifted the kitten to eye level.
"We need to discuss boundaries," I told her seriously.
Zmeya meowed, unimpressed with my authority. Maya laughed, that real laugh again, and the sound loosened something in my chest.
"She's not going to listen," Maya said, reaching for the kitten. "She's chaos incarnate."
"Like someone else I know," I said, watching her cuddle Zmeya close.
"I'm not chaos," she protested. "I'm highly organized. I alphabetize medications and everything."
"You're organized chaos," I amended. "The most dangerous kind."
She smiled at that, but it faded as reality crept back in. "How bad is it really? With Brand?"
I pulled her against me, her back to my chest, arms wrapped around her and the purring kitten. "Bad enough that you need to trust me. Good enough that we're going to win."
"Promise?" she asked, and she sounded small again.
I pressed my lips to her hair, breathed in vanilla soap and something uniquely Maya. Thought about the bounty, the photographs, the closing net. Thought about everything I hadn't told her, couldn't tell her.
"Promise," I lied, because sometimes lies were kinder than truth.
She relaxed against me, believing because she needed to. Malysh crept onto her lap to join his sister, and we sat there in the morning light—two broken people and two rescue kittens, building something that might not survive what was coming.
But I'd die before I let anyone take this from me. From us.
Chapter 15
Maya
Brandwaslookingforme, and it was serious.
Even though I was snuggled up next to Kostya all night, I struggled to sleep. I couldn’t help but worry.
I felt as though I was missing something. As though there was something Kostya wasn’t telling me.
My life had taught my to read micro-expressions like vital signs. The slight tension in someone's jaw meant elevated stress response. A pause before answering suggested cognitive load from deception. Eyes tracking left indicated memory retrieval versus right for fabrication. Survival had turned me into a human polygraph, and yesterday, Kostya had failed the test.
His "promise" had come too quickly. No hesitation, no qualification, just immediate reassurance. But promises required calculation—weighing variables, assessing probability of success. The kind of promise he'd made should have taken at least three seconds of processing. His had been instant.Reflexive. The kind of thing you said to keep someone calm while the building burned around them.
I shifted slightly, studying his face in sleep. Even unconscious, there was a furrow between his brows that hadn't been there three days ago. Whatever Brand had escalated to, it was worse than "actively looking." The bounty was probably higher than standard. The trackers more professional. The net closer than Kostya wanted me to know.
Part of me wanted to shake him awake, demand the truth. The same part that needed to know exact medication dosages and surgical outcomes, that couldn't tolerate uncertainty in diagnosis. But the other part—the exhausted part—wasn't ready. Sometimes not knowing was its own kind of mercy.
Zmeya chose that moment to announce herself, stalking across the bed to head-butt my chin with demanding affection. The movement woke Kostya, his arm tightening automatically before his eyes opened.
"Morning, kitten," he murmured, voice rough with sleep.
The endearment made something flutter in my chest, chasing away the darker thoughts. "Morning."
He studied my face with those gray eyes that missed nothing. "You're thinking too loud."
