Izzy's eyes meet mine over Mila's head. Question. Permission.
I nod.
"Of course, sweetheart," Izzy says. "Come on. Let's get you settled."
They head upstairs, Mila's small hand in Izzy's, chattering about the wolf in her dream who protected her from bad guys.
Symbolic much,ptichka?
I clean up the kitchen. Hide the gun kit. Lock the financial records in my safe. Check the perimeter cameras one more time.
Everything's quiet. But quiet doesn't mean safe. Matthew knows we're coming. He's preparing. Hiring professionals. Buying weapons. Planning his countermove. I need to be ready.
Need to make sure when it comes—and it will come—I'm faster.
Better.
More ruthless.
Because I'm not just protecting myself anymore.
Upstairs, I find them in our bed—Mila curled in the middle, like a small buffer, already asleep, wolf clutched to her chest. Izzy's on the far side, eyes closed, but her breathing's wrong. Not asleep, just pretending.
I slide in carefully. Mila doesn't wake.
Izzy's eyes open. Meet mine across our daughter.
Our daughter.
Not mine. Not hers. Ours.
When did that happen?
Her hand reaches across Mila, fingers brushing mine.
I thread our fingers together.
And we lie there in the darkness—The Wolf, the heiress, and the little bird between us—pretending we're not all terrified of what tomorrow will bring.
Pretending this arrangement isn't the realest thing any of us have had in years.
I don't sleep.
But I watch them both breathe. Safe. Together.
And decide that whatever Matthew throws at us, whatever violence comes next, this—right here—is worth burning the whole world down to protect.
The Wolf hunts alone.
Until he doesn't.
22
Izzy
“It’s him.”
Wesley’s voice through the speaker cuts through the silence of Sergei’s office. I’m staring at the laptop screen, at security footage that makes my stomach turn to ice.
