I press my ear to his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Steady despite everything. Despite the blood he's spilled, the people he's killed, the darkness he's lived in.
"My father used to say everyone deserves grace." I trace patterns on his chest. Over his heart. "Even monsters."
"Your father was a better man than I'll ever be."
"He liked you. Said you were honest about what you are. That's rarer than you think."
Sergei reaches across me. Opens the nightstand drawer. I'd put Dad's lighter in there after our chess game—old habits, needing it close even when I'm not holding it.
He pulls it out. Sets it on the nightstand beside his gun and phone.
Gold and scorched and sacred.
A talisman. A reminder. A promise I made to a dead man.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Sleep,kotyonok."
I close my eyes. Breathe in earth and safety.
His heartbeat drums beneath my ear. Steady. Sure. Alive.
Outside, the city continues. Traffic and sirens and life moving forward without caring about our complications.
But here, in this darkness, with Sergei's arm around me and my father's lighter keeping watch, I finally feel something I haven't felt since Dad died.
Safe.
Not because I'm protected.
Because I'm not alone.
12
Sergei
"Papa,why does Izzy smell different than Mama?"
I freeze mid-flip, pancake batter dripping onto the stovetop. Mila's perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging as she studies me. Behind me, I hear Izzy choke on her coffee.
"Different how,ptichka?" I keep my voice neutral, scraping the ruined pancake into the trash.
"Like flowers and vanilla." Mila tilts her head. "Mama smells like... cold."
Out of the mouths of babes.
"That's called perfume," Izzy says, recovering faster than I expected. She moves to stand beside me at the stove, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief, but I feel it. "Your mama probably wears something different."
"I like yours better." Mila's declaration is matter-of-fact, no hidden agenda. "It's warmer."
Izzy's cheeks flush pink, and I watch the color spread down her neck.
"Thank you, sweetheart," Izzy says, and I notice she doesn't stumble over the endearment. Natural, like she's been calling Mila that for years, instead of hours.
I pour fresh batter, focusing on the griddle instead of the way my fake wife fits into this kitchen like she belongs here. Like this—morning light streaming through windows, Mila's laughter, vanilla perfume mixing with coffee—could be real, if I let myself believe it.
"Can we go to the park today?" Mila asks, already moving on with the mercurial attention span of eight-year-olds. "The one with the big swings?"
I glance at Izzy, catching the shadow that crosses her face.
