"What part?"
"The part where she's actually gone. Where I don't have to wonder what she's planning. Where the monster under the bed is finally locked up and I can stop checking the shadows."
"That's a big part."
"It should feel bigger." I turn in his arms, facing him. Silver threading through dark hair. The scar bisecting his eyebrow. Grey eyes that have seen me at my worst and didn't flinch. "I keep waiting for relief. For closure. For whatever emotion you're supposed to feel when the person who helped murder your father finally pays for it."
"What do you feel instead?"
"Tired." The word comes out small. "Tired and empty and like I spent a year running toward a finish line that doesn't exist."
"Because it doesn't." His thumb traces my jaw. "Revenge doesn't end things, kotyonok. Just changes them. You won. You survived. You built something they couldn't destroy. That's the finish line—not her in chains, but you still standing."
"When did you get wise?"
"Somewhere between my third murder and my daughter's first chess tournament." His mouth quirks. "Growth is nonlinear."
I laugh despite everything. This man. This impossible, dangerous, devoted man who makes pancakes and plans surprise parties and has killed more people than I've met at charity galas.
Mine.
Still can't believe it some days.
"Mila wants a sibling," he says quietly.
"She mentioned. Several times. With PowerPoint."
"She gets the presentation skills from you."
"She gets the persistence from you."
"Fair." His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer. "What do you want?"
The question lands heavier than it should. A year ago, I wanted survival. Six months ago, I wanted justice. Now...
"I want to stop running." The words surface without permission. "Stop fighting. Stop waiting for the next attack. I want to wake up one morning and not check the exits. Not calculate escape routes. Not wonder if today's the day someone finishes what Matthew started."
"And?"
"And I want—" My throat closes. I force it open. "I want to build something. Not just maintain what Dad left. Build. Create. Something that exists because we chose it, not because we inherited it."
His expression shifts. Opens. The Wolf showing his underbelly, which he only does in darkness when it's just us.
"A baby."
"Maybe. Eventually. If we're not too broken."
"We're exactly broken enough." He kisses me—soft, careful, the kind of kiss that asks instead of takes. "Broken people build the strongest things. We know what it costs to lose them."
"That's either profound or concerning."
"Both. I'm multifaceted."
"You're ridiculous."
"You married me anyway."
"Worst decision of my life."
