20
Maeve
The weeks after thecouncil vote were stranger than fear.
Fear had rules. Fear woke you before dawn and told you to check the locks. Fear made you count the exits, memorize bus timetables, hide yourself in a caravan and cash in places nobody looked. Fear was exhausting but it was familiar. It was my bad little roommate for three years, always taking up space in my head.
Peace was different because it didn't have rules. Peace was waking up to the sound of Ivan arguing with the toaster because it had, in his words, "burned his bread." Peace was Gregor placing a hot water bottle at my feet without a word because I'd mentioned once, in passing, that cold toes gave me a headache. Peace was Artem taking calls in Russian with one hand resting on Mac's bassinet like a tiny sleeping baby could stabilize his irrational thoughts.
Nobody warns you that peace is difficult. That you'll miss the adrenaline. That you'll wake up at three in the morning because nothing is wrong, and the absence of something being wrong will be weird…almost like a trap.
The house changed around us in small ways. A basket of baby blankets appeared in the formal sitting room. One of Ivan's knives ended up on the same shelf as a stack of board books, which caused a brief but intense discussion about appropriate nursery adjacency. Gregor installed a second dog bed in the west hall because Fergus "required many rest positions while he trained."
I wondered how often Gregor had an eyesight test.
And the staff stopped looking startled when I came downstairs barefoot.
The guards stopped calling me ma'am like I was about to have them deported.
And somewhere in the third week, I realized I'd stopped flinching when doors closed.
Today, I woke to silence, which was immediately suspicious. Mac usually had me up before the sun.
I stretched across the bed. Empty.
Then I saw them.
All three of them crowded around the armchair near the window like conspirators. Artem in sweatpants, bare-chested, hair still rumpled. Ivan on one side. Gregor on the other. And in Gregor's arms, wrapped in a white sleepsuit and completely unconscious, Mac.
They were just watching him breathe.
"He's still asleep," Artem murmured when he noticed I was awake. His voice was the low gravel he used when he was trying not to wake the baby, which was most of the time now.
I pushed myself up, dragging the duvet with me, and padded across the carpet. The floor was heated. I still wasn't used to the floor being heated.
"You're all up early," I whispered.
Ivan glanced at the clock. "Technically, we never went to bed."
"That's not early. That's poor management."
Artem's mouth curved. "You married into poor management."
"I married into organized crime. I assumed the organization was part of the package."
Gregor looked down at Mac. "The baby altered the schedule."
"Yes," I said. "Babies are famous for respecting operational plans."
Artem pulled me onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist. His face found the crook of my neck—right over the scar—and he inhaled like he was checking something.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked. My fingers found their way into his hair without my permission.
He looked at Mac. The tiny fingers twitching in sleep. The lips moving through some dream-feed.
"I'm trying to memorize it," he said. "Before it changes."
My heart did a little flip as I looked at one of the most dangerous men in Europe and saw a terrified father holding his breath.
