His jaw tightens. "I should."
"Too late."
Brooklyn slides past the windows. Glass towers giving way to brownstones, tree-lined streets that make it feel like Manhattan is a distant planet. He pulls up to a corner unit—warm brick, black shutters, window boxes that look almost aggressively normal.
I stare.
This is where The Wolf lives?
"Not what you expected?" There's amusement in his voice.
"I was thinking more... industrial. Maybe a few security cameras. Possibly a moat."
"Cameras are there. You just can’t see them." He nods toward the window boxes. "Motion sensors in the planters. Reinforced steel behind that pretty front door. Panic room in the basement. The whole place is wired to alert me if a mouse farts in the wrong direction."
He kills the engine.
"From the outside, it's a Brooklyn brownstone. Inside, it's a fortress. Mila needs to feel like she lives somewhere normal. But normal doesn't mean unprotected."
The things he's done for her. The disguise he maintains so his daughter can pretend her father isn't dangerous.
I'm in so much trouble.
"She's at her mother's until Sunday," he adds, rain starting to let up outside. "Every other weekend. That's all the custody agreement allows."
"That's—" I clear my throat. "That's not enough."
"No. It's not." Something hard crosses his face. "But it's what I've got until the hearing. Unless Elena uses this marriage as ammunition and takes even that away."
My hand's on the door handle when his closes over my wrist. Not hard. Just... there. Stopping me.
"Before we go in. We need to talk about Mila."
"I know the rules. We're married. I won't tell her it's?—"
"This isn't about rules." He leans closer. The scent of him—cedar and danger and rain—fills the car. "Mila's eight. She's already lived through her parents' divorce, her mother's bitterness, her father's past. When she gets back Sunday, she's going to meet you. And she's going to form opinions. Attachments. Kids do that."
The way he says it. Fierce. Protective.
Not about me.
About her.
"I won't hurt her, Sergei."
"Not intentionally. But this arrangement—" He pauses, choosing words carefully. "It has an expiration date. We both know that. Once your inheritance is secured, once my custody case is settled, we go our separate ways. That's the deal."
"That's the deal," I echo, though something twists in my chest.
"So while you're here, while we're playing house for the courts and your uncle and everyone else—I need you to be careful with her. Don't make promises you can't keep. Don't let her call you Mom. Don't—" His voice roughens. "Don't make her love you if you're planning to leave."
Oh.
He's not threatening me.
He's warning me.
Because he knows how easy it would be to get attached. And he knows exactly how much it would hurt when this ends.
