We climb out and the front door bursts open. Mila barrels down the steps, dark hair flying, and launches herself at me. I catch her, lifting her against my chest, and she wraps around me like she's drowning, and I'm air.
"Papa." Her voice breaks. "You came back."
"Always,ptichka." I press my face to her hair. "Always."
She pulls back, studying my face. Her small fingers trace the bruises on my jaw, the split lip.
"Did they hurt you?"
"They tried. But I'm harder to hurt than I look."
"Izzy killed bad men," Mila announces. "She protected me. Like you do."
"I heard." I set her down, one hand still holding hers. "She's good at protecting people we love."
Mila nods solemnly. "That's why you married her. Because she's like us."
Like us. A Wolf pack of three. Predators protecting each other.
We're not faking anymore.
We're family.
Inside,the house is immaculate. No blood. No bodies. No evidence, except Izzy's controlled breathing and the way her hand stays near the concealed carry at her hip.
Always ready. Always watching.
Just like me.
Mila drags me to the kitchen, chattering about puzzles and the ocean and missing her stuffed animals from home. Normal eight-year-old concerns layered over trauma she's processing in real time.
Izzy makes coffee—strong and black, the way I take it—and slides the mug across the counter. Our fingers brush and electricity sparks. Her pupils dilate, color rising in her cheeks, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
"Mila, sweetheart, why don't you go upstairs and grab your book?" Izzy's voice is steady despite the heat in her eyes. "Your papa can read with you."
"Okay!" Mila bounds up the stairs, energy inexhaustible.
The second she's gone, Izzy's in my space. Her hands frame my face, thumb tracing my split lip with unexpected gentleness. "You scared me. Being arrested. Locked up."
"I scared you?" My hands find her waist, pulling her between my legs where I'm leaning against the counter. "You killed two men, and I wasn't there."
"I wasn't alone. I had your training. Your weapons. Your—" She stops, biting her lip.
"My what?"
"Your daughter. She needed me to be strong, so I was." Her forehead drops to mine. "I'm so tired of being strong, Sergei."
"Then don't be. Not right now." I slide my hands up her back. "Let me carry it for a while."
"You just got out of jail for murder. You don't get to carry anything."
"Watch me."
I pull her fully against me, and she melts, arms wrapping around my ribs, face buried in my chest. She doesn't cry. Doesn't break. Just holds on like I'm the only solid thing in her world.
Maybe I am.
"Matthew's next move," I murmur into her hair. "What's Wesley's read?"
