"Occupational hazard." I forced lightness into my tone. "Medical brain never fully shuts off."
He made a noncommittal sound, but I felt him catalog my deflection. We were both lying now, dancing around truths too heavy for morning light.
"I want to go," I said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a defibrillator. "To Sophie's nursery. Today."
Relief flooded his features, genuine and immediate. This wasn't calculated—this was real. "Good. That's—good. She'll be happy."
I took a breath, gathered courage for the harder admission. "I want you there too."
His eyebrows rose slightly.
"Not the whole time," I clarified quickly, words tumbling over each other. "I need to do this with Sophie first. Need to prove I can be vulnerable with someone who isn't you. But at the end?" My voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I want my Daddy there."
The word still felt strange outside of sex, outside of that desperate space where titles became prayers. But his eyes darkened with something tender, something that made my chest tight.
"What time?" he asked, like it was that simple. Like I hadn't just asked him to witness me in a space designed for regression, for the parts of myself I'd hidden from everyone except him.
"You said two o'clock? Maybe come at three-thirty? That gives me an hour and a half with Sophie first."
"Three-thirty," he agreed, then pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I'll be there."
The certainty in his voice made my eyes burn. No hesitation about entering a pastel nursery that seemed antithetical to everything he was. No concern about how it might look—the Besharov enforcer playing with stuffed animals. Just immediate agreement because I'd asked, because I needed him there.
"Thank you," I whispered against his chest.
"You don't thank me for giving you what you need," he said, fingers playing with my hair. "That's my job."
We lay there for another few minutes, the kittens creating chaos around us while we pretended the world outside didn't exist. But eventually, reality intruded. Kostya had meetings—family business he couldn't discuss. I had an afternoon appointment with vulnerability I wasn't sure I was ready for.
He got up first, moving through his morning routine with military precision. I watched him dress—dark jeans, blackhenley, shoulder holster he'd remove before coming to the nursery. The transformation from sleepy lover to bratva enforcer happened in layers, each piece of clothing adding armor.
When he was ready to leave, he came back to the bed, cupped my face in those massive hands.
"Three-thirty," he repeated, like a promise.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He kissed me then, slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that felt like claiming and comfort in equal measure. When he pulled back, I almost asked. Almost said, "How bad is it really? What aren't you telling me about Brand?"
But the words stuck in my throat. Because asking meant shattering this fragile peace we'd built. Meant acknowledging that our bubble was temporary, that violence was coming whether we named it or not.
So I let him go, watched the door close behind him, and tried not to think about the danger I was in.
I had a nursery to visit.
Thelavenderdoormockedme with its cheerfulness. I'd been standing outside Sophie's nursery for a full minute, hand raised to knock, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
Tachycardia, my medical brain supplied helpfully. Pulse probably one-forty. Palmar hyperhidrosis evident. Classic presentation of acute anxiety response.
Knowing the clinical terms didn't make my hand any steadier.
This was different from meeting Sophie before, when she'd been the Pakhan's wife checking on her husband's enforcer's new woman. This was personal. Intimate. She was inviting me into her most vulnerable space, and I was about to walk incarrying all my damage like an uninvited guest to her careful peace.
My hand was still raised. Still not knocking. Respiratory rate elevated. Mild tremor in extremities. If I was my own patient, I'd prescribe Ativan and tell myself to breathe.
Instead, I knocked. Three quick taps before I could lose my nerve.
Footsteps inside, soft on what sounded like carpet. The door opened, and there was Sophie—all five-foot-four of her, round with pregnancy, wearing soft pink pajamas covered in tiny clouds. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy bun, and her smile was warm enough to thaw something frozen in my chest.
