My daughter was happy.
For now, that was enough.
I glanced at Iskra.
Even in sleep her hand had found its way beneath Runa’s back, fingers curling around her shoulder—the instinct operating without her permission, the body keeping watch even when the mind had finally surrendered to exhaustion.
The shower had cleared most of it, but what remained told the story clearly enough—scratches, early bruising settling into the skin, the specific damage of a face that had met a brick driveway. She probably hadn’t recovered from the pistol whipping Bogdan gave her in Istanbul.
I wondered if my mother had fought for us before Lev got rid of her.
The thought arrived uninvited and I let it sit for longer than I intended.
My eyes dropped to her bare breast.
Runa claimed it before I could form another thought—latching on with the possessive efficiency of someone who had decided the matter was settled and was not interested in competition.
I scratched my head.
Having a half-naked woman in my bed wasn’t what it used to be.
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The time I spent at home became more pleasant. Runa was considerably happier now that her favourite food source had been restored—a fact she made known to everyone in the house through the simple mechanism of being audibly miserable without it and audibly content with it.
Slowly more of my men began coming to meet her. Konstantin needed no invitation—he doted on Runa in the specific way that only he could, which was loudly and without dignity and with complete indifference to what anyone thought about it. Even Bogdan had taken to lingering in doorways longer than strictly necessary.
The only one who held back was Tau. I observed him when he came—and it wasn’t indifference or malice that kept him at a distance. Something else. Something closer to nostalgia, or a grief I didn’t have the information to name.
It wasn’t long before he was called away again, this time to New York—an unusual destination for his particular skill set, but none of my business.
With most of my work now conducted from home, I kept a close eye on Iskra. Close enough that I eventually had to tell mybykinot to follow me around the property, which prompted looks I chose not to acknowledge.
She had a rigid schedule for Runa.
Feeding time. Garden time. Play time. Nap time. Bath time.
Every single day. Clockwork. The kind of consistency that couldn’t be faked or rushed or substituted with money or authority—the kind that simply required showing up, the same way, every day, without fail.
She was rewarded by a baby who slept well and was more content than the nanny or I had managed to keep her in four days of trying.
Olya made approving sounds and kept Iskra supplied with food she claimed was good for milk production. It may have worked. Her breasts pushed against her clothes with a persistence that occasionally strained at buttons.
I wouldn’t know.
I didn’t look too closely.
Chapter 65
Iskra
I lifted Runa from his bed with the cotton scarf wrapped around her arm, the excess material resting on her chest, and moved to transfer her into the cot. Vadim took her from me before I could—lifting her with the careful confidence of a man who had been practising—and laid her on her back. I watched as she snuggled into her blanket and settled back into sleep without protest.
I turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured.
I turned back, confused. This was the same routine we had followed for three weeks. Runa fed, Runa settled, I returned to the west wing.
