He sets down the gun part and meets my eyes. “Because you’re here, Kira is in Moscow waiting for her mother to come home, and for the first time in years, I have something to lose beyond my skin.”
The admission settles into the space between us. I uncurl from my protective position and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table.
“I called her before dinner.” I sigh heavily. “Mila put her on the phone, and she talked for twenty minutes about Sofia’s toys and the garden and some cat that keeps visiting the compound. Not once did she ask about Bogdan. She just talked like a normal five-year-old having a normal day.”
“That’s a good thing.”
I pick at a scratch on the table’s surface as tears spring to my eyes. Before they can fall, I blink them away. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’ve already broken something in her. If growing up surrounded by all of this has damaged her in ways that won’t show until she’s older. Until she tries to trust someone and can’t figure out how.”
“You haven’t broken her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that she laughs easily and trusts openly. She makes friends with strangers and drags them into tea parties with no fear.” He reaches across the table and stills my fidgeting hand. “Broken children don’t do those things, Daria. Broken children hide and flinch and make themselves small and invisible. Kira is none of those things.”
“Because I protected her.”
“Which is a testament to you as a mother, given the circumstances.”
I turn my hand over beneath his, lacing our fingers together. His palm is rough with calluses, and it feels so soothing against mycold skin. We sit like that for a moment, connected across the table with gun parts scattered between us.
“If I die tomorrow, will Kira be okay?”
He squeezes my hand, and for a beat, he doesn’t answer. I watch him wrestle with the question, trying to find words that won’t feel like a lie or a platitude or an empty promise neither of us can keep.
“She has Mila and Alexei,” he reminds me softly. “She would attend good schools and have everything she needs, never wanting for anything. She would be surrounded by people who love her.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and his fingers linger against my jaw. “I’m not going to let that happen.”
“You can’t promise me that.”
Pyotr releases my hand and pushes back from the table. He crosses to my side and crouches in front of my chair, putting us at eye level. This close, I can see the faint scar near his left ear, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, and the lines around his eyes that crease when he’s thinking hard.
“Watch me.” He cups my face in his hands, tilting my head up before he presses his lips to my forehead. “That little girl will have her mother for a very long time. That’s the plan.
“Planning isn’t the same as guaranteeing.”
“No, but it’s what I have to offer.” He glides his thumb along my cheekbone and adds, “I can’t control what happens inside that warehouse. I can only control how prepared I am, how focused I stay, and how quickly I react when things go wrong. I can tell you this much: I’ve never had more reason to walk out of a fight alive than I do right now.”
My eyes burn. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Crying won’t help anything. It won’t keep him safe or bring Kira home or make tomorrow any less terrifying.
“I don’t want to spend tonight thinking about what might go wrong,” I whisper. “I don’t want to lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, imagining every possible disaster until the sun comes up, and it’s time to face the real thing.”
“What do you want?”
The question is so simple and direct, demanding an answer I’m not sure I’m brave enough to give.
But I’m so tired of being afraid, holding back, and protecting myself from things that might hurt when the thing that’s hurting me is the distance I keep putting between myself and everyone who tries to get close.
“I want you to stay with me tonight. Not standing guard outside my door or sitting in the kitchen cleaning guns until dawn. With me. In my bed. Close enough that I can hear you breathing.”
Something moves behind his eyes. His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, then down my arms until he’s holding my hands.
“Daria…”
“I know what I’m asking and what it means. We haven’t talked about what this is between us or what happens after or any of the things that normal people discuss before they—” I stop myself and take a breath. “Everything changes in the morning, one way or another. And if this is the last night we have, I refuse to spend it alone and wondering what might have been if I’d just been brave enough to ask for what I want.”
He searches my face for second thoughts or a sign that I’m asking out of fear rather than desire.
Whatever he finds must satisfy him, because he rises and pulls me to my feet. I stumble into him, my balance unsteady, and his arm wraps around my waist to hold me upright. We stand there in the kitchen, chest to chest, his heartbeat against mine.
