Now I'm sitting in a bugged house, watching a poisoned child sleep, married to a killer, and planning the destruction of my own family.
How did I get here?
The answer is simple: I walked. Step by step, choice by choice, from the woman I was to the woman I'm becoming. Each decision leading to the next—propose to Sergei, learn to shoot, help him hide bodies, protect Mila at all costs.
I didn't fall into this life.
I chose it.
And I'd choose it again. Every single time.
Mila stirs, those hazel-green eyes fluttering open. She sees me and smiles, sleep-soft and trusting.
"Izzy?" Her voice is scratchy. "What time is it?"
"Early. How do you feel?"
She considers the question seriously, the way children do when they're learning that bodies can betray them. "Okay. My stomach doesn't hurt anymore."
"Good. That's really good, sweetheart."
"Why are you watching me sleep? That's weird."
A laugh escapes me, unexpected and almost painful. "Because I love you. And sometimes when you love someone, you just want to make sure they're okay."
She processes this, then nods like it makes perfect sense. "Papa does that, too. He checks on me at night when he thinks I'm asleep."
Of course he does. The Wolf prowling the halls, guarding his pack.
"Hey, Mila?" I smooth her hair back from her forehead. "How would you feel about a little vacation? A beach house in the Hamptons. Just you, me, and your papa."
Her eyes light up. "Really? With the ocean?"
"With the ocean. And probably a lot of puzzles. Maybe some burnt cookies, if you help me bake."
"I always help you bake."
"I know. That's why they're always burnt."
She giggles, and the sound stitches something together in my chest that I didn't know was torn.
"When do we leave?" she asks.
"Today. As soon as you're packed."
"Today?" She sits up, suddenly energetic despite yesterday's ordeal. "Can I bring my books? And the puzzle Papa started? And?—"
"Bring whatever you want, sweetheart. We'll have plenty of room."
She's out of bed and pulling open drawers before I finish the sentence, chattering about which stuffed animals are essential and which can stay behind. Normal kid behavior. Resilient kid behavior.
She has no idea why we're really leaving.
I hope she never has to know.
Downstairs, the smell of pancakes drifts up the stairs. Sergei playing his part, creating the illusion of a normal morning while bugs transmit our performance to a man who poisoned our daughter.
I pull Dad's lighter from my pocket. The metal's warm from resting against my body, familiar and grounding.
