The words hung in the air, simple and true. We were in love. The doctor and the enforcer. The runner and the hunter. TheLittle and her Daddy. All of these things, none of these things, everything in between.
Sophie started packing up the stuffed animals with exaggerated care, giving us a moment. I stayed in Kostya's lap, my head on his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat against my chest. Strong and steady, like everything about him when he held me.
"Thank you," I whispered against his neck. "For coming. For playing. For being . . ."
"Ridiculous?" he supplied.
"Mine," I corrected. "For being mine."
His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, holding me close. "Always, kitten."
Sophie cleared her throat gently. "It's almost four. Nikolai will be looking for me."
Time's up. Back to reality. Back to the world where Brand was hunting me and danger pressed against the compound walls. But for two hours, we'd been safe. We'd been silly. We'd been ourselves in ways the outside world would never understand or accept.
"Same time next week?" Sophie asked, hope clear in her voice.
I looked at Kostya, saw him nod slightly. "Yes," I said. "Absolutely yes."
“Maybe Nikolai will join us,” Kostya suggested.
“Maybe,” Sophie replied.
We gathered ourselves, me reluctantly sliding from Kostya's lap, him unfolding from the tiny chair with a grunt that made us both laugh. Sophie hugged me goodbye, quick and fierce, whispering "You're good for each other" before pulling back.
As we left the nursery, Kostya's hand found mine. We walked through the Besharov compound in comfortable silence, carrying the peace of that yellow room with us like a secret, like a promise.
This could be our life. Not just the danger and the running and the violence that surrounded us, but this too. Soft afternoons with friends who understood. Stuffed animal battles. Coloring inside or outside the lines by choice.
A future. Despite everything hunting us, we were building a future.
IfloatedbacktoKostya'sroom on a cloud made of crayons and stuffed animal warfare, my body loose in ways it hadn't been in months. Every muscle relaxed, every anxious thought quieted, that constant spiral of what-if finally, blissfully silent. The nursery had done something to my brain chemistry that six months of running hadn't—made me feel safe. Not just protected, but actually safe, down to my bones.
Kostya headed straight for the shower, pressing a kiss to my forehead before disappearing into the bathroom. "Five minutes," he promised, already pulling his shirt over his head.
The water started, and I curled onto the bed with Zmeya and Malysh, who'd spent their afternoon destroying every toy we'd bought them. Feathers from the wand toy scattered across the floor like crime scene evidence. The shark bed had somehow migrated halfway across the room. Malysh's cave was upside down, which seemed physically impossible but here we were.
"You're chaos," I told Zmeya, who was now attacking my fingers with the dedication of a tiny assassin. "Absolute chaos."
She purred and bit harder, those needle teeth finding purchase. I didn't pull away. The small pain felt real, grounding, proof that this wasn't some elaborate dream. I was here, safe in the Besharov compound, with kittens and a man who loved me and a friend who understood my strangest needs.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
I almost ignored it. Who would be texting me? Everyone who mattered was either in this compound or dead. But curiosity won—that fatal flaw that had gotten me into medicine in the first place, the need to know, to understand, to fix.
The screen lit up with an unknown number and a wall of text that made my blood turn to ice water.
Dr. Cross, it's Frank. I'm in trouble. Police came to the store, asked about you. Now there are men watching the bodega. I think they're going to hurt my grandmother. Please, I need your help. Can you meet me? There's a warehouse on 4th—I'm hiding there. Please. You're the only one who can help.
Frank.
The kid who'd risked everything to steal medical supplies for me. Who'd noticed the bruises I couldn't explain, asked if someone was hurting me with genuine concern in his eyes. Mrs. Zi's grandson, barely twenty-one, with his whole life ahead of him until I'd dragged him into my disaster.
My hand shook as I read the message again. Then again. Looking for signs of coercion, odd phrasing, anything that suggested someone else had written it. But it sounded like Frank—direct, slightly panicked, that mix of street-smart and scared that I'd heard in his voice when he'd asked about the bruises.
Police at the store. Men watching. His grandmother in danger.
Because of me. Because I'd existed in his orbit, accepted his help, let him steal for my patients. I'd painted a target on his back without meaning to, and now Brand's people—or whoever was hunting me—had found him.
