Chapter 57
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
VIKTOR
Avelina and the kids have been back with us for a week, and it’s been pure bliss.
I’m in the office with Grigory and Matvey when Sofia appears in the doorway of the office, clutching something behind her back, her face lit up like she’s just discovered buried treasure.
“Viktor,” she says solemnly, “I have a present.”
I pause mid-sip of coffee, suspicious. The last ‘present’ involved glitter, a glue stick, and three hours of removing sparkles from my hair.
“What is it, little bird?” I rumble.
She beams and whips her hands out from behind her back. One pair of fluffy, bright pink kitten slippers dangle from her fingers.
My lips tug up. “Those will look adorable on you, little bird.”
She nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh, they will.”
And it makes me happy to see her smiling like this.
Then, dear God in Heaven help me.
Because she reveals a second, much larger pair.
Also bright pink.
And also kitten-faced.
Grigory nearly spits his drink across the room. “Oh, wow,” he mutters, trying—and failing because he doesn’t try very hard—not to laugh.
Sofia looks up at me, entirely earnest. “They’re for you to wear, Viktor. The left kitten is called Mr. Snufflefloof, and the right kitten is called Sugarpuff Princess.”
My eyes are as wide as saucers, and all I can do is croak a strangled sound in reply.
While Matvey, that fucker, nearly chokes on his fucking donut.
“We can wear our new kitty slippers together, Viktor,” Sofia carries on. “They’re soft. You don’t like loud footsteps either.”
And her words hit me harder than any bullet ever has.
Because she’s right. I can’t stand loud noises in the house—the echo of boots on tile, the scrape of chairs. I never told her that, but somehow, this little girl noticed. She noticed that I’m the same as her in so many ways.
“It’s so that your feet can be quiet too, Viktor. So that you don’t have to be afraid of your own footsteps.”
I feel something twist painfully in my chest. “You did that…for me?”
Again, she nods.
“Alright,” I say gruffly, taking the slippers. “But if anyone laughs,” I say, shooting a scowl on steroids at Grigory and Matvey, “I’ll bury them in the garden.”
Sofia squeals with delight as I slide the ludicrous things onto my feet.
They’re soft. Ridiculously soft. And the kitten faces stare up at me like they know exactly how far I’ve fallen from my fierce reputation.
After dinner that evening, I wear them still, pink kittens and all, while Sofia gets out a jigsaw puzzle for us to do together in the rec room.
My soldiers try to keep straight faces as they walk past, their eyes flicking down to my feet.
“Nice…footwear, Vik,” Nikolai snorts.
I narrow my eyes. “You like them? I’ll get you a pair.”
Sofia giggles, delighted.
And I realize there’s not a single thing in the world I wouldn’t wear if it meant keeping this little girl beaming and happy in my home.
The following day, I still can’t stop thinking about Sofia’s gift for me, and I realize that I also want to do something special for this little girl. I stare at the corner of the room, arms crossed, trying to picture it. It needs to be quiet. Calm. A place where the world doesn’t feel so loud.
Sofia’s little face flashes in my mind. Her hands clamped over her ears the last time the guys got rowdy during a card game. She didn’t cry. She just shut down. And that gutted me more than any scream could have.
So, I do what any man who’s terrible with words but decent with his hands would do. I shop for supplies. And then I build.
The wooden frame goes up first. I shape turrets at the top of the frame, so that it looks like a castle, and it’s simple, sturdy, and just right for Sofia’s size. I attach thick, dark fabric onto the frame to block out light, tacking it neatly so there are no dangling edges to trip her.
I crouch inside to check the space, and then I start layering it.
Soft pillows in a soothing color, a weighted blanket on top of a cozy beanbag, and a small nightlight shaped like a sleeping cat.
The finishing touch is a row of stuffed cats I got from the toy store, their cute, fluffy faces staring up at me as I line them up carefully like a little family—because Sofia likes her toys just so.
Finally, I make a flagpole for Sofia’s den, and attach a pink flag decorated with the sheet of cat stickers I bought—tabbies, calicos, and black cats with big round eyes.
I step back and glance at Queenie, who’s crouched under the table, her head to one side and her eyes wide as if she’s thinking that she might be missing out.
She likes to go outside each day and lie in the sun.
But sometimes, when she’s feeling stressed or overwhelmed, she wants to stay inside and snuggle up in a cozy space, although I know she then misses the sunshine and yard.
“Don’t worry,” I mutter, scratching my jaw. “I haven’t forgotten about you. You get your own space too.”
And next to Sofia’s space, I start building a miniature catio—a little enclosed sun-trap area where Queenie can hide from the chaos in the compound yet still enjoy the sun and view of the outside.
I build a bench in front of the window and then construct a miniature turreted castle on top of it, with one side adjoining the pane of glass.
I grab a spare pillow and fluffy blanket, and I put them inside to make it cozy for Queenie.
I also add the plush, purple and gold cat ‘throne’ I got from the pet store—it’s amazing the stuff they design for pets these days.
Then I add one of her teddy bears for her to snuggle up with.
The men made fun of me when I bought some stuffed toys for Queenie, but she loves cuddling up with them.
And as a finishing touch, I add a dangling toy shaped like a mouse.
“Okay, all finished,” I tell her two hours later.
Queenie sniffs it cautiously, her small pink snout twitching in an adorable way, walks around it twice, then scampers inside to claim her throne.
My mind wanders to Albert. He already has a doghouse in the yard, but now, I’m having ideas of building him something bigger too.
When Sofia walks in later, her little gasp makes my chest ache.
“It’s…it’s…my very own den,” she exclaims in wonder.
“It looks just like a pussycat palace.” She crawls straight inside, clutching a stuffed kitten to her chest, and Queenie settles in her catio like they’ve both found home.
“I’m going to call it my Magic Meow House,” Sofia murmurs as she explores all the things inside it.
Avelina looks at me, her eyes shining. “You built them both safe spaces.”
I shrug, suddenly awkward. “Every princess and queen needs a castle.”
And Sofia’s reaction and the soft look Avelina gives me are better than any thank you I could ever receive.
At the weekend, Sofia plays at dressing up the animals again, and she announces that they are now ready for their photo with the humans. She hands Avelina’s phone to Nikolai. “Please can you take our family photo?”
“Sure,” he answers as he shoots a look of bewilderment at Queenie and Albert, who are dressed in matching capes and crowns.
Sofia tugs Avelina, who’s holding Leon, into the picture. “Come on, Viktor,” the little girl trills as she beckons me just as Leon starts to wail.
I freeze. “Me?”
“Uh-huh. You can stand here next to Mama.” Avelina is busy soothing Leon as Sofia speaks.
I shake my head, taking a step back. “Sofia, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say in a low voice.
Her small smile falters. “Why not?”
“Because…” My throat goes tight. “You said you want a family photo. And I’m not part of your family.”
Her brow furrows, and her tiny nose scrunches as she thinks about this. “I know you aren’t my real dad.”
The words hit like a punch. Because I wish so much that I were. I crouch down to her level, forcing a steady voice. “That’s right. I’m not.”
She blinks, then tilts her head. “That doesn’t matter.”
I stare at her. “It…doesn’t?”
“No.” She slides her tiny, warm hand into mine. “You’re here. You keep us safe. You make Mama smile again. That makes you ours.” Her voice is full of the innocence that only a young child can have.
My chest squeezes so tight I can’t breathe.
Avelina manages to calm Leon, and she gives me a smile as Sofia tugs me into the picture.
“Now,” Sofia says, “stand here and say cheese. You are part of this picture. Forever, Viktor.”
And my voice cracks when I whisper, “Okay, little bird. Cheese.”
It’s Sunday evening, and Avelina thinks I’m out working on some urgent issue at one of our warehouses.
I shake my head. I’ve survived combat zones, enemy ambushes, and a grenade that blew out half a wall behind me. I’ve taken a knife to the ribs and kept moving.
Yet I’m standing here, staring at a pair of brand-new ice skates like they’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
“Why the hell do you want to learn to skate?” Matvey leans against the doorframe, sipping coffee like this is his personal comedy show.
I keep my eyes on the laces, threading them with precision. “Sofia likes skating with Avelina. If something happens—”
Matvey snorts. “You’re gonna slide heroically across the ice like some Slavic Batman?”
I shoot a scowl at him. “It’s so that I’ll be able to keep up with her, smartass.”
But it’s not about their safety. It’s about the way Avelina can change when she’s on the ice. Like she’s breathing different air. I want to give it back to her. Even if it means breaking my neck.
“Fucking whipped.” Matvey pushes off the doorframe. “Come on. Let’s get this shit over with.”
Avelina is at the play park with the kids. Inside the rink I built, the cold bites my gloves, and the stiff plastic presses into my ankles like a vise. The rink is still a secret from Avelina and Sofia.
“Step on the ice,” Matvey directs me.
I put one foot down. It slides three inches sideways. And my entire body locks up.
My brain instantly calculates possible outcomes.
Fractured wrist, cracked ribs, concussion.