"Is she coming back?"
"I don't know, sweetheart." I take her hand again, squeezing gently. "But I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Whatever happens with your mama, I'm staying right here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She nods, relaxing slightly against the pillow. Then, quieter: "Izzy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for staying." She's quiet for a moment. "Mama left."
"I know, sweetheart."
"She always leaves." Mila's voice is small, matter-of-fact. The voice of a child who's learned not to expect things. "When things get hard. When I need her. She leaves and sends the nanny or calls Papa."
My chest cracks open.
"I'm not leaving," I tell her. "Not now. Not ever."
"You promise?"
"I already promised once." I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I'll promise a hundred more times if you need me to."
The smallest smile tugs at her mouth. "Maybe just one more."
"I promise, Mila. You're stuck with me."
"Good." She curls toward me, small body seeking warmth, and I hold her while the monitors beep their steady rhythm. "I like being stuck with you."
Half an hour later, the door opens again. Sergei fills the frame, grey eyes wild and dangerous, silver hair disheveled like he ran from the parking lot. His gaze finds Mila first—she's awake now, still curled against my side—and something breaks in his expression.
Then his eyes find mine. I'm disheveled, shirt stained with vomit, probably looking like I've been through a war.
I have been.
He crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms. Hard and sudden and desperate, his face buried in my hair.
"You saved her," he breathes against my temple. "Myptichka. You saved her."
"I just—" My voice cracks. "I just got her here."
"You were there." His hands tighten on my back, and I feel him shaking. "When she needed someone. You were there."
I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "Elena showed up. It was ugly."
His jaw hardens. "What happened?"
"She tried to slap me. I caught her wrist. Mila told her to leave." I glance at the small form on the bed, making sure she's not listening. She's drowsy, eyes half-closed. "Elena stormed out. Didn't even say goodbye to her daughter."
Something dark crosses Sergei's face. The Wolf calculating, assessing, filing information away.
"The custody case," he says quietly. "After this?—"
"We win. No judge is going to give primary custody to a mother who abandons her sick child to throw a tantrum at her stepmother."
"You documented it?"
