Now it just makes me tired.
"Good morning to you, too." I keep my voice neutral, controlled. Everything with Elena requires strategy, like defusing a bomb that wants to detonate.
"Don't." She descends the steps, heels clicking against stone like a countdown. Her brown eyes sweep over me, cataloguing evidence. Building her case. "You reek of sex and someone else's sheets. Where were you last night?"
"Not your business anymore."
"It is when you're picking up our daughter." She moves closer, invading my space like she still has that right. Like we're still married instead of two years divorced. "What kind of example are you setting, Sergei? Rolling up here straight from some woman's bed?—"
"I showered." I did actually. Izzy's penthouse has three bathrooms, and I used the guest one while she was still sleeping, because I didn’t want to wake her. Trying not to go back for round three. "And my personal life stopped being your concern the day you signed the divorce papers."
Elena's smile could draw blood. "Your personal life became my concern the moment you helped create Mila. The court might be interested to know you're still engaging in reckless behavior."
Ice floods my veins. "Careful."
"Or what?" She tilts her head, daring me. Wanting me to snap. "You'll do what you do best? Break something? Someone?"
Her voice drops, venomous. "I know what you were, Sergei. What you still are under all this domesticity. The Wolf doesn't just retire."
My jaw locks. She knows exactly where to stick the knife and how deep to twist it. "I'm here for my daughter."
"Who deserves better than a father who smells like whore's perfume?—"
"Mama!"
We both turn. Mila stands in the doorway, backpack clutched to her chest, dark hair in the braids I taught her how to do. Those hazel green eyes, too old, too watchful, dart between us.
She heard.
Of course, she heard.
Elena's expression shifts instantly to maternal and concerned, like flipping a switch. "Sweetheart, go wait in the car. I need to speak to your father."
Mila doesn't move. She's eight, but reads people like they're books written in her native language, always figuring out where they fit, where they're broken, where the plot turns dangerous. Right now, she's assessing whether this argument will escalate into something worse.
"Hey,ptichka." I use the nickname I gave her when she was born. Little bird. "Go ahead, I'll be right there."
She hesitates, then nods, slipping past her mother without looking at her. Smart girl. The car door closes with a soft click.
Elena waits until we're alone again. "Two more incidents, Sergei. Two more times you step out of line, and I'm filing for full custody."
"I haven't stepped out of line."
"You went home with some woman last night." Her smile is poisonous, practiced. "That shows poor judgment. Instability. The court won't like it."
"I'm allowed to have a life."
"Not when it affects our daughter." She straightens her already perfect posture, like she's posing for a portrait titledConcernedMother. "Every other weekend, that's what the agreement says. But if I decide you're unfit?—"
"You won't." The words come out harder than I intend, edged with something that sounds like a threat because it is. "Because you know I'll fight back."
Something flickers in her eyes. Not fear. Elena doesn't do fear. But recognition. A reminder that I'm not just the domesticated ex-husband she's trying to mold me into. That underneath the pancakes and puzzle nights, there's still something with teeth.
The Wolf doesn't retire.
He just learns to wear different skin.
"Mila deserves stability," she says quietly, like she cares. "Not a father who can't control himself."
