She looks up when I enter. “You’re late.”
“Got held up.” I cross to Mila first, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “How’s the puzzle,ptichka?”
“Hard. There’s too much sky, and it all looks the same.” She holds up two pieces that are nearly identical. “Papa, which one goes here?”
I study the pieces, then the partially completed puzzle—a lighthouse on a cliff, storm clouds gathering over an angry sea. “Try rotating that one ninety degrees.”
She does. It fits. Her smile is pure triumph. “I did it!”
“You did.” I ruffle her hair, then straighten. “Bedtime in fifteen minutes. Go brush your teeth.”
“But I’m not tired?—”
“Fifteen minutes.” My voice carries the weight of non-negotiation. “March.”
She grumbles but obeys, clutching her toothbrush like a weapon as she stomps toward the bathroom. The second she’s out of earshot, Izzy’s in my space, hands on my chest, eyes searching.
“What happened?”
“Found the leak. Artur was selling information to Matthew. Everything—the safe house, our movements, the gala plans. All of it.”
Her face goes pale. “Is he?—”
“Dead. Andrei’s disposing of the body. The rest of the team’s clean. I checked everyone.”
“How do you know they’re not lying?”
“Because I know how to read people. And because the ones who’d betray me can’t look me in the eyes when they do. We’re secure now. Matthew’s blind. Whatever he’s planning for the gala, he’s doing it without insider intel.”
“That makes him more dangerous.” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Desperate men make mistakes, but they also burn everything down trying to survive.”
“Let him burn. We’ll be ready. Andrei’s positioning men around the venue. Wesley’s monitoring every entrance. And I’ll be glued to your side from the moment we arrive until we leave.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m serious, Isabelle. No bathroom trips alone. No wandering off to network. You stay in my line of sight every second. Artur gave Matthew enough information to know we’re coming. That means he’s planning something. I won’t let him touch you.”
“He won’t. Because if he tries, I’ll shoot him myself.”
I’m proud that she’s learned to bare her teeth.
“My Wolf,” I murmur, leaning down to brush my lips against hers. The kiss is soft, brief, a promise more than passion.
She melts into it anyway, hands sliding up my chest to lock behind my neck. When she pulls back, her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with want.
“After the gala,” she whispers. “When Matthew’s dead and we’re safe. I want?—”
“Everything.” I finish for her. “I know.”
“Papa! I brushed my teeth!”
Mila wears pajamas covered in stars, hair damp from washing her face. She looks so small, so innocent, and guilt twists through my chest. This is the world I’ve dragged her into—where her father kills traitors in basements and her stepmother plans murder at charity galas.
But she’s smiling. Happy. Safe.
That’s what matters.
“Come on,ptichka. Bedtime.” I scoop her up despite her protests that she’s too old to be carried, and she wraps around me like a koala. Her strawberry shampoo fills my nose, sweet and clean and nothing like the copper scent of blood I scrubbed from my hands an hour ago.
