The baby was still reaching. Her fingers curled against my neckline, tugging gently, and I realized I was crying. Just a little. Just enough that I had to blink rapidly to clear my vision.
Maks's hand tightened on mine.
This was a family.
A real one—strange and dangerous and full of contradictions, but real. Brothers who could kill without hesitation holding babies with infinite gentleness. A pakhan with dry humor and soft eyes when he looked at his daughter. A bear of a man whose hugs could probably break bones but whose smile was pure warmth.
They were welcoming me.
Not because they had to. Not because Maks had asked. But because this was what they did—collected survivors, as Maks had said. Found the broken ones and gave them a place to belong.
I touched the collar through my dress.
And for the first time since we'd pulled up to the gates, I started to believe I might actually fit.
Thediningroomwaschaos in the best way.
Sophie found me first. She was exactly as Maks had described—delicate, blonde, the particular grace of a dancer even standing still. Her eyes were the giveaway: sharp, observant, missing nothing despite the gentle smile on her face. She moved like someone who'd spent years performing, every gesture precise and intentional.
"You must be Auralia." Her voice was warm. Melodic. "We've heard so much about you."
Before I could respond, another presence filled the doorway.
Maya was everything Sophie wasn't. Tall where Sophie was petite, confident where Sophie was gentle, the kind of woman who commanded attention just by existing. Dark hair swept back from a striking face, medical precision in her gaze even as she smiled. She moved like someone accustomed to emergencies, calm and competent.
"The famous little bird," she said. Her voice was low, warm with humor. "I was starting to think Maks had made you up."
Both women embraced me. Not the polite social hugs I'd expected—real embraces, the kind that came from people who understood what it meant to be welcomed into a family like this. Sophie smelled like vanilla and something floral. Maya smelled like antiseptic and sandalwood, a combination that shouldn't have worked but somehow did.
The table behind them was laden with food.
Not the catered elegance I might have expected from a family with this kind of money. This was homemade. Hours of labor evident in every dish. Pelmeni in neat rows, the dumplingsglistening with butter. Beef stroganoff in a massive serving bowl, the cream sauce rich and fragrant. Black bread sliced thick, the crust dark and crackling. Pickled vegetables in jewel-toned jars—beets, cucumbers, cabbage, things I couldn't identify.
"Nikolai's grandmother's recipes," Sophie explained, guiding me toward a seat. "We take turns cooking. It's the only way to keep the boys civilized."
"You'd be amazed how badly they eat when left to their own devices," Maya added. She was already serving, piling my plate with food I hadn't asked for but somehow desperately needed. "Konstantin once survived three days on protein shakes and spite."
"That was a work emergency," Konstantin protested from across the table. He'd settled Katerina in a high chair between himself and Nikolai, the baby already gumming a piece of bread with serious concentration. "I was busy."
"You were stubborn. There's a difference."
The banter flowed around me like water. Easy, familiar, the particular rhythm of people who'd weathered hard things together and come out knowing each other's edges. Nikolai's dry observations. Konstantin's booming laugh. Sophie's gentle corrections. Maya's sharp wit.
And Maks, beside me, his hand finding my thigh beneath the table. Anchoring me to the moment when my brain wanted to float away on the sheer overwhelm of being welcomed.
The food was incredible.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I started eating. The stroganoff was rich and savory, the pelmeni perfectly seasoned, the black bread dense and satisfying in a way commercial bread never managed. Every bite was comfort. Every dish felt like someone had poured love into a recipe and served it on porcelain.
"You're not eating enough," Maya observed. She was watching me with those medical eyes, probably cataloging my weight, my pallor, the signs of too many missed meals.
"I'm eating plenty."
"You're eating like a tiny bird." She smiled, taking the sting out of the words. "Appropriate, I suppose."
Sophie laughed. "Maya tries to feed everyone. It's her love language."
"Second only to medical interrogations," Konstantin agreed. "She gave me a full physical three days after we met. I was terrified."
