She nods and burrows under the covers.
I close the door softly behind me.
Nikolai stands in the hallway, his expression tight. I used to think that look meant he was cold, unfeeling. But I learned better. The Bratva doesn’t allow weakness, doesn’t permit emotion. So, he learned to bury it all beneath stone.
But I can see it now—the tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex at his sides. He’s hurting. He missed four years of Hannah’s life. He’s meeting his daughter as a stranger who terrifies her.
And as much as I want to feel vindicated by that, all I feel is tired and confused.
“Why Chicago?” I ask.
He looms over me in the narrow hallway, his shadow swallowing mine. “Aslanov has no reach there. You’ll be safe.”
There’s certainty in his voice. A promise underneath the words.
I look up at him. Even in the dim light, his eyes are that same piercing blue—the color I used to dream about, that I see every time I look at Hannah’s face. He looks older now. Harder. Four years have carved new lines into his features, added bulk to his frame.
But he saved us tonight. Whatever else he’s done, whatever lies he’s told, he came when we needed him.
I just don’t know what to do with that yet.
Nikolai drags a chair from the dining table and positions it outside the bedroom door. A few feet away, but close enough to hear if anything goes wrong.
He settles into it like he’s taking up a post. On duty.
“You should get some rest,” he says without looking at me.
I stare at the back of his neck for a long moment. We used to be so close. Now there’s an entire ocean between us, even standing in the same room.
“Okay,” I manage.
I slip back into the room and into the bed beside Hannah, and pull her close, tucking the covers around us both.
“Shh, it’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here.”
She relaxes against me, already drifting. Children are resilient in ways adults can never be.
I close my eyes and try to rest, but my mind won’t stop replaying the events of the last few hours. Nikolai appearing in my apartment. His hands around that man’s throat. His eyes meeting mine across the chaos.
Four years of grief. Four years of believing he was gone.
And he was alive the whole time.
I roll onto my back once Hannah’s breathing evens out into a deeper sleep. The cabin ceiling is lost in shadow above me.
He’s back.
I keep repeating it to myself, testing the reality of it. Trying to make it stick.
People tell you how grief feels—the stages, the waves, the way it changes shape over time. But no one prepares you for this. For the person you buried suddenly breathing again. For having to recalibrate an entire history you thought you understood.
I’m stuck somewhere between denial and anger, and I don’t know which one is winning.
Should I ask him if he plans to disappear again? Or is it safer to stay numb, to protect myself from being hurt a second time?
This is how it’s always been with Nikolai Rogov. He crashes into my life like a storm, upends everything, leaves me scrambling to find solid ground. The first time we met, hehandcuffed me to his bed to stop me from ruining my best friend’s wedding. My life hasn’t been the same since that day.
And now here he is again. A freight train I never saw coming.
