Dasha.
Our daughter had arrived on a warm July night, screaming her displeasure at being forced into the world. She had her mother's dark hair and my green eyes, and from the moment the midwife placed her in my arms, I was utterly, irrevocably lost.
I turned my head and found them in the chair by the window—Gabrielle in her silk robe, Dasha at her breast, morning light painting them both in shades of gold. The sight stopped my heart the way it did every time. My wife. My daughter. The family I'd never believed I deserved.
"You're staring again," Gabrielle said without looking up.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing." But she smiled, and the warmth in it reached across the room to wrap around my chest. "Come say good morning to your daughter. She's been asking for you."
"She's six weeks old. She can't ask for anything."
"She makes a specific face when she wants you. It's very demanding. Very imperious." Gaby finally looked up, her dark eyes dancing. "She gets it from you."
I crossed the room and knelt beside the chair, reaching out to touch Dasha's cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft, impossibly perfect. She turned her head at my touch, her rosebud mouth releasing Gaby's breast, her green eyes—my eyes—finding my face.
"Good morning, little one," I murmured. "Did you sleep well?"
She made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been gas. I chose to interpret it as agreement.
"She was up twice," Gaby said, adjusting her robe. "But she went back down easily. I think she's finally getting the hang of this sleeping thing."
"Unlike her father."
"You slept fine."
"I slept because you were beside me." I leaned in and kissed her—soft, lingering, tasting of morning and contentment. "I always sleep better when you're beside me."
"Charmer."
"Truth-teller."
Dasha made an impatient sound, and we both laughed. Our daughter did not appreciate being ignored, even for a moment. Another trait she'd inherited from me, according to Gaby.
I lifted her from her mother's arms, cradling her against my chest. She was so small—barely eight pounds, a fragilebundle of new life. The first time I'd held her, I'd been terrified of breaking her. Now the weight of her felt natural. Essential. Like she'd always been meant to rest in my arms.
"Breakfast?" Gaby asked, standing and stretching. The robe gaped slightly, offering a glimpse of the body I knew as well as my own. She'd changed since the pregnancy—softer in some places, fuller in others. More beautiful than ever, though she still sometimes doubted it.
I never doubted it. Not for a second.
"Breakfast," I agreed. "On the terrace?"
"Where else?"
The island had been rebuilt from the ashes.
Where fire had consumed, we'd constructed anew. The main house was larger now, more secure, with reinforced walls and state-of-the-art security that Kirill had personally overseen. But it was also warmer—Gaby's influence evident in the soft furnishings, the art on the walls, the small touches that transformed a fortress into a home.
We ate breakfast on the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, Dasha dozing in the bassinet beside us. The morning was warm, the sky a brilliant blue, the sea glittering like scattered diamonds below the cliffs.
"Lisa called yesterday," Gaby said, spreading honey on her toast. "While you were with Kirill."
"How is she?"
"Good. She's seeing someone new—a lawyer, apparently. Very boring, very stable. She says it's refreshing after years of dating creative types."
"She should bring him to visit."
