Mikhail says, "Just someone trying to get onto the property. Nothing to concern yourself with."
"Yeah, see, that's not how this works." I live here now, and I'm done being treated like someone's clueless plus-one. "I don't love cryptic threats in my own front yard."
Pasha, still at a distance picking up the rocket, hasn't noticed yet.
That's when I hear it.
A woman's voice. High, strained, furious. Shouting from somewhere beyond the front lawn. I can't make out everything, but one word hits like a sucker punch to the gut.
"Son."
I whip around. "Did she just say son?"
The guards stiffen.
"Damon! Damon, I'm your mom!"
My brain scrambles. Damon? Who the hell is that?
"You want to tell me what that's about?" I ask, already moving to shield Pasha from view.
"Ma'am, some woman thinks she's here to get her son." Mikhail's voice is firm. "We need to get you and the boy inside. Now."
"No. You're getting him inside. I'm going to talk to her."
He frowns. "With all due respect, ma'am, that's not how this works."
The guards exchange glances. I feel the flicker of indignation in my chest. Four weeks ago, I was a stranger in this house. Now I'm Nikolai's wife. These men work for us.
"This is my house," I say, and my voice comes out colder than I expect. "If someone's screaming about our kid, I'm handling it. Take Pasha to the kitchen. Keep him occupied. Don't let him hear anything."
I hear myself and nearly wince. Who do I think I am? But I'm not going to weaken the stance with an apology. Not now.
They hesitate. Then comply.
Pasha groans as he gets guided away. "But we just launched!"
"I'll save your turn!" I call out, forcing a grin.
Mikhail takes Pasha inside. The other guard stays.
"I'm not leaving you, Mrs. Ivanov." He shakes his head like he fears decapitation if anything happens to me.
"Fine." I huff.
He draws his weapon and follows as I walk toward the front gate, my heart thudding against my ribs harder with every step.
I've been the lady of this house for a few weeks. Now I'm making decisions that could upend everything.
A moment later, I see the woman on the other side.
Late twenties. Painfully thin. Dark hair in a messy ponytail. Clothes clean but worn, face bare and streaked with tears.
Not a junkie.
Not visibly drunk.
Just desperate.
