“Yes.”
She processes this, those old eyes studying my face. Looking for something—fear, regret, hesitation. Finding none of it.
“Good,” she whispers. “Papa would be proud.”
The words crack something in my chest. This eight-year-old child, processing violence and death, deciding it’s acceptable because I did it to protect her.
What have we done to her?
But I know the answer. We’ve shown her the truth—that the world isn’t safe, that survival requires teeth, that sometimes the only way to protect what you love is to destroy what threatens it.
Just like her father taught me.
“Let’s call Andrei,” I tell her. “He’ll clean this up.”
That, and his men who are undoubtedly lying outside the estate. Dead and unmoving.
Andrei arrives within fifteen minutes,bringing his crew. They work with the efficiency of people who’ve disposed of bodies before—plastic sheeting, bleach, unmarked van. By dawn, there’s no evidence anyone died here, except bloodstains being scrubbed from hardwood.
“You did well,” Andrei tells me, lighting another cigarette. “Sergei chose right.”
“He didn’t choose me. This is business.”
“Business.” He smiles like I’ve told a joke. “Yes. Very businesslike, the way you protect his daughter. The way you kill for her without hesitating. Very professional.”
“Shut up.”
“You love him. You love her. This stops being business long time ago.” He exhales smoke toward the ocean. “Question is—when do you stop lying to yourself?”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because he’s right, and I’m not ready to admit it.
“Diane called,” I say instead. “Sergei will post bail on Monday morning. I’ll be bringing him here.”
“Good. He’ll want to see his daughter. Thank the woman who kept her alive.” Andrei drops the cigarette, crushing it under his boot. “And maybe you both stop pretending this is fake.”
He leaves before I can respond.
The sun rises over the ocean, painting everything gold and pink. Beautiful and serene, like people didn’t just die in this house. Like my hands aren’t still shaking from pulling the trigger. Like everything’s normal.
But nothing’s normal anymore.
Somewhere in Manhattan, Sergei’s sitting in a cell, thinking we’re safe, thinking he’s protecting us by staying locked up.
He’s wrong.
We need him. Mila needs him.
I need him.
The thought should terrify me. This was supposed to be temporary—a business arrangement to save my inheritance and help his custody case. A fake marriage with clear expiration date.
Except it stopped being fake somewhere between teaching me to shoot and reading bedtime stories to his daughter. Between killing for each other and sleeping tangled together like we can’t bear separation.
Between becoming his Wolf and him becoming my?—
What?
My husband?
