She studies me for a long moment. Her eyes are exactly like Viktor’s — dark and serious. Then she yawns, and I see them. Tiny starter fangs have now appeared. Little baby points, barely visible. Oh my god. That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Snowflake,” Lily says quietly.
“Snowflake? That’s a beautiful name.” I smile. “Is Snowflake having fun at the party?”
A tiny nod. And then a smile.
Viktor watches the exchange with something painful flickering across his face. When I stand, he gives me a small nod.
“She doesn’t warm to many people,” he says quietly. “You should feel honored.”
“She’s lovely, Viktor. You’re doing a good job with her.”
He doesn’t respond, but something in his expression softens. Just for a moment.
Then the mask slides back into place, and he leads Lily away to find a quieter corner.
I watch them go, my heart aching. That little girl needs someone. And so does her father, whether he admits it or not.
Nikolai appearsat my side and pulls me onto the dance floor.
“I saw you with Lily,” he says as we sway to the music. “She actually smiled at you.”
“Almost smiled. But I’ll take it.” I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. My hand drifts to my bump — our baby, growing safe inside me.
“Happy?” he asks softly.
“Perfectly,” I say. “Absolutely perfectly.”
And I mean it.
Epilogue
Nikolai
Two Years Later
I stand in the doorway of the nursery and watch my wife make a fool of herself.
Claire sits a rocking chair with our son in her lap, holding a picture book and doing voices. Ridiculous voices. The dragon sounds like a grumpy old man — which she claims is based on me — and the princess sounds suspiciously like Mrs. Vasek after too much wine.
Our son, Prince Alexei William of House Draven, giggles so hard he can barely breathe.
Our son is eighteen months old now, with his mother’s golden hair and my dark eyes. His starter fangs came in early, much earlier than expected, and Claire spent a week convinced she was doing something wrong until Marta assured her that some babies are simply eager. “He’s advanced,” our nanny said with a proud smile. “He takes after his father.”
I’m not sure fang development is genetic, but I wasn’t about to argue.
Marta sits in the corner now, folding tiny clothes with the efficiency of someone who’s done this for decades. She’s an older Krovenian woman, a grandmother several times over, with silver-streaked hair and warm eyes that remind me of Mrs. Vasek. Claire adores her. When we were interviewing nannies, Claire rejected three perfectly qualified candidates before Marta walked in, took one look at baby Alexei, and said, “What a serious little prince. I think we’ll be great friends.”
Alexei had smiled at her. Actually smiled. He doesn’t smile at many people.
Claire hired her on the spot.
“And then the dragon said—” Claire drops her voice to a ridiculous growl. “I don’t like visitors.”
Alexei shrieks with laughter and claps his pudgy hands.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying very hard to maintain my dignity. “I don’t sound like that.”
