“She’s perfect,” Noah says. “She’s always perfect when she’s protecting someone.”
Vitaly reaches out, catches my hand.
“Are you?” he asks me directly.
His turn to check on me. His turn to be the protector, even if it’s just asking.
I squeeze his hand. “I’m thriving, baby.”
And I am.
The adrenaline’s fading into satisfaction. My skin feels electric.
He sees it.
Reads it.
Accepts it.
“Okay,” he says. Like that was the most important thing he needed to know.
“So what now?” Noah asks.
I beam.
Big. Bright.
Dangerous.
“Now? We move Vitaly in. Bring Reid home. And run the best fucking bakery this town’s ever seen. Mrs. Patel expects excellence.”
Vitaly gives the softest groan-laugh. “I’d rather not disappoint Mrs. Patel.”
We all laugh.
While Elliot starts pulling out mixing bowls and Vitaly washes flour off his hands, Noah pulls me into the back pantry for thirty seconds.
He presses me against the shelves, hands on my waist.
“You’re not hurt?” he asks. Not because he doesn’t trust my word. But because he needs to see. “Show me.”
I lift my shirt slightly.
No wounds.
“Not a scratch,” I say. “She was sloppy. I was better.”
He nods, kisses my forehead, then my mouth.
“I love you,” he says. Simple.
“I love you too. All of you.”
He smiles. “Come on. We’ve got bread to make and a family dinner to plan.”
And just like that, it’s done.
The choice.
