"Gregor would have a spreadsheet by now."
"Gregor would have three spreadsheets and a risk assessment matrix." He rubbed his face with both hands. "Fine. Fine. We'll figure it out. But I'm telling you right now, if this blows up, I'm blaming you. And then I'm saving you. In that order."
"That seems fair."
"It's not fair. Nothing about this is fair." He dropped his hands and looked at me, and for a moment the fury cracked open and what was underneath was just exhaustion. "She just had your baby, Artem. She’s emotional and she can't even walk to the bathroom without help. And you're about to walk in and tell her you're marrying someone else."
"I'm fake marrying someone else."
"You know what I mean."
I did. That was the problem.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out. Gregor. Again. The man had gone from stone-cold field medic to obsessive baby correspondent in a matter of days and showed no signs of slowing down.
Gregor: Mother and child stable. Mac has decided he hates hats. He screams every time we put one on him. Fergus has not left her side. More to follow.
Underneath the message was another photograph.
Mac's fist, tiny, furious, absolutely perfect was wrapped around Maeve's finger. Her thumb was in the corner of the frame, nail polish chipped.
I stared at it.
The SUV hit a pothole. Moscow's roads were Third World on a good day. The jolt made my phone slip and I caught it with a grip that was probably too tight.
"What are you going to name him to the council?" Ivan asked quietly. "When they ask. They'll want a suitable Russian name as your heir."
"Mac."
"They won't accept Mac."
"They won't need to. Mac won't be near the council. Mac won't know the council exists until he's old enough to choose for himself."
Ivan was quiet for a moment. "You really believe that."
"I'm going to make it true."
The snow was falling harder now. The driver turned onto the road toward the airstrip.
"Maeve is going to be furious," Ivan said.
"Yes."
"And hurt."
"Yes."
Ivan sighed—a long, theatrical exhale that fogged the window beside him. "I didn’t survive Moscow and nine months ofcelibacy to come home and watch her murder you with a breast pump."
The laugh that escaped me was brief and rough and entirely unexpected. It hurt somewhere in my chest. "That's a very specific weapon."
"I've been thinking about it since you opened your mouth in there. She could do it. Those things are heavy. The hospital-grade ones, anyway. Gregor showed me when I called him."
"You're fixating."
"I'm preparing. There's a difference." He rolled his shoulders back. "Tell her when we get back. No delays. No waiting for the right moment. There isn't one."
