"She’s beautiful," Ivy whispers. "Silas, look."
I look.
I look at my wife, ruined and radiant. I look at my daughter, fragile and new.
I reach out. My hand is shaking. The hand that has held guns, knives, and the throats of my enemies.
I touch the baby’s hand. It is impossibly small. Her fingers curl around my index finger.
She grips me.
And in that moment, the last of the ice in my chest melts.
I am not just a monster anymore. I am a father.
"Silas," Ivy says softly. "Do you want to hold her?"
"I’m... I’m dirty," I say, looking at my shirt, stained with sweat and Ivy’s blood. "I’m too rough."
"You’re her dad," Ivy says. "Take her."
She hands me the bundle.
I take her. She weighs nothing. She feels like holding a grenade with the pin pulled—explosive potential wrapped in delicate skin.
I hold her against my chest. She smells of iron and milk. She opens her eyes. They are dark blue. My eyes.
"Hello," I whisper.
She blinks at me. She doesn't cry. She just looks. She is judging me.
I will burn the world for you,I vow silently.I will build walls so high you never have to see the ugliness outside. I will kill anyone who makes you cry.
But then I look at Ivy. She is watching us, a tired, soft smile on her lips.
"No walls," I correct myself.No cages.
"What do we call her?" Ivy asks.
I look at the baby. I think about the darkness we came from. I think about the light she brings.
"Elena," I say. "It means shining light."
"Elena," Ivy repeats. "Elena Vane."
"The Queen of New York," I add.
Ivy laughs. "Let’s start with Princess."
I sit on the edge of the bed, holding my daughter, sitting beside my wife.
The tracker on Ivy’s ankle beeps softly. I glance at my phone.
HEART RATE: 70 BPM.
Peace.
For the first time since I took her, her heart is at peace.
