Chapter 17 #2
"Fine." Elena's voice is ice now, all the rage compressed into something colder.
More dangerous. "Stay with your stepmother.
See how long that lasts when she gets bored of playing family.
" She turns to leave, then stops at the curtain.
"And when Sergei's past catches up to him—when his violence destroys everything he touches—don't expect me to pick up the pieces. "
She's gone before I can respond.
I sink back into the chair beside Mila's bed, suddenly exhausted. My hands are shaking. My heart's still hammering from the confrontation. But when I look at Mila, she's not crying anymore.
She's watching me with something that looks like trust.
"She's mad," Mila says quietly.
"Yeah. She is."
"Is she coming back?"
"I don't know, sweetheart." I take her hand again, squeezing gently. "But I'm not going anywhere. Okay? Whatever happens with your mama, I'm staying right here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She nods, relaxing slightly against the pillow. Then, quieter: "Izzy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you for staying." She's quiet for a moment. "Mama left."
"I know, sweetheart."
"She always leaves." Mila's voice is small, matter-of-fact. The voice of a child who's learned not to expect things. "When things get hard. When I need her. She leaves and sends the nanny or calls Papa."
My chest cracks open.
"I'm not leaving," I tell her. "Not now. Not ever."
"You promise?"
"I already promised once." I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I'll promise a hundred more times if you need me to."
The smallest smile tugs at her mouth. "Maybe just one more."
"I promise, Mila. You're stuck with me."
"Good." She curls toward me, small body seeking warmth, and I hold her while the monitors beep their steady rhythm. "I like being stuck with you."
Half an hour later, the door opens again. Sergei fills the frame, grey eyes wild and dangerous, silver hair disheveled like he ran from the parking lot. His gaze finds Mila first—she's awake now, still curled against my side—and something breaks in his expression.
Then his eyes find mine. I'm disheveled, shirt stained with vomit, probably looking like I've been through a war.
I have been.
He crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into his arms. Hard and sudden and desperate, his face buried in my hair.
"You saved her," he breathes against my temple. "My ptichka. You saved her."
"I just—" My voice cracks. "I just got her here."
"You were there." His hands tighten on my back, and I feel him shaking. "When she needed someone. You were there."
I pull back enough to meet his eyes. "Elena showed up. It was ugly."
His jaw hardens. "What happened?"
"She tried to slap me. I caught her wrist. Mila told her to leave." I glance at the small form on the bed, making sure she's not listening. She's drowsy, eyes half-closed. "Elena stormed out. Didn't even say goodbye to her daughter."
Something dark crosses Sergei's face. The Wolf calculating, assessing, filing information away.
"The custody case," he says quietly. "After this—"
"We win. No judge is going to give primary custody to a mother who abandons her sick child to throw a tantrum at her stepmother."
"You documented it?"
"Hospital has security cameras. Nurses saw everything. And I'll testify under oath that she tried to assault me in front of Mila." I take his hand, squeezing. "She's done, Sergei. She just doesn't know it yet."
He nods slowly, then moves to Mila's bedside. He lifts her hand to kiss her knuckles. "How are you feeling, ptichka?"
"Better now." She reaches for him with her other hand, pulling him down for a hug. "Papa, can Izzy stay with me? All night?"
"Of course she can." He looks at me over his daughter's head. "She's not going anywhere."
"Neither are you," I tell him.
"No," he agrees. "Neither am I."
We settle in—Sergei in the chair on one side, me on the other, Mila between us hooked up to monitors that beep reassurance. The doctors haven't found a cause yet. They're running more tests. Something about unusual markers they want to investigate further.
Unusual markers.
The phrase sits heavy in my chest, connecting to fears I can't quite name. Matthew's reach. His willingness to hurt anyone to get to me. His total lack of limits.
Would he poison a child?
Three months ago, I would have said no. Now, I'm not sure about anything.
I watch Mila drift toward sleep, her small hand still clasped in mine, her father's voice low and soothing, as he tells her a story about wolves and princesses who protect each other from dragons.
Whatever made her sick—whether it's random chance or something more sinister—changes nothing about what I know now.
She's mine.
And anyone who threatens her will learn exactly what happens when you come for The Wolf's family.
"Hey." Sergei's voice pulls me from dark thoughts. He's watching me across the bed, eyes soft despite the hard set of his jaw. "You okay?"
"No." I don't bother lying. "But I will be."
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For loving her."
The words land like a blow to the chest. Because he's right. Somewhere between burnt cookies and blood in toilets, between legal battles and hospital beds, I started loving this child like she was mine.
"Easy," I tell him, voice breaking. "She's easy to love."
His smile is small, sad, fierce. "So are you, kotyonok. So are you."
Mila's breathing evens out between us. Sleep finally taking her somewhere safe.
We sit there in the darkness—her father and me—watching over her together.
A family forged from fake marriage and real blood.
Strange how the best things find you when you're not looking.