Chapter 13 #2
"This is Katerina," Nikolai said. His voice had changed. Softer now. The voice of a father, not a boss. "She doesn't bite. Usually."
"She's beautiful." The words came out automatically, but I meant them. There was something about the baby's solemn gaze, the way she studied me with the same assessing attention as her father.
Nikolai shifted her in his arms, and Katerina's attention moved from my face to somewhere lower. Her chubby fingers reached out—not toward my face, not toward my hair.
Toward my collar.
The leather was hidden beneath my dress. Invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for. But babies didn't care about visible or invisible. They reached for what interested them.
Her tiny fingers brushed the fabric at my throat. Pressed against the hidden leather underneath.
She couldn't know what she was touching.
Couldn't understand what the collar meant, or what it represented, or why the feel of small fingers pressing against that hidden claim made tears prick at my eyes.
She was just a baby, curious about texture, about warmth, about the woman standing in her foyer.
But it felt like a blessing anyway.
"She likes you," Konstantin observed. His voice had gone softer too. "That's a good sign. Katya's an excellent judge of character."
"She's six months old." My voice came out rough.
"And already smarter than most people I know."
The baby was still reaching. Her fingers curled against my neckline, tugging gently, and I realized I was crying. Just a little. Just enough that I had to blink rapidly to clear my vision.
Maks's hand tightened on mine.
This was a family.
A real one—strange and dangerous and full of contradictions, but real.
Brothers who could kill without hesitation holding babies with infinite gentleness.
A pakhan with dry humor and soft eyes when he looked at his daughter.
A bear of a man whose hugs could probably break bones but whose smile was pure warmth.
They were welcoming me.
Not because they had to. Not because Maks had asked. But because this was what they did—collected survivors, as Maks had said. Found the broken ones and gave them a place to belong.
I touched the collar through my dress.
And for the first time since we'd pulled up to the gates, I started to believe I might actually fit.
T he dining room was chaos in the best way.
Sophie found me first. She was exactly as Maks had described—delicate, blonde, the grace of a dancer even standing still.
Her eyes were the giveaway: sharp, observant, missing nothing despite the gentle smile on her face.
She moved like someone who'd spent years performing, every gesture precise and intentional.
"You must be Auralia." Her voice was warm. Melodic. "We've heard so much about you."
Before I could respond, another presence filled the doorway.
Maya was everything Sophie wasn't. Tall where Sophie was petite, confident where Sophie was gentle, the kind of woman who commanded attention just by existing.
Dark hair swept back from a striking face, medical precision in her gaze even as she smiled.
She moved like someone accustomed to emergencies, calm and competent.
"The famous little bird," she said. Her voice was low, warm with humor. "I was starting to think Maks had made you up."
Both women embraced me. Not the polite social hugs I'd expected—real embraces, the kind that came from people who understood what it meant to be welcomed into a family like this.
Sophie smelled like vanilla and something floral.
Maya smelled like antiseptic and sandalwood, a combination that shouldn't have worked but somehow did.
The table behind them was laden with food.
Not the catered elegance I might have expected from a family with this kind of money.
This was homemade. Hours of labor evident in every dish.
Pelmeni in neat rows, the dumplings glistening with butter.
Beef stroganoff in a massive serving bowl, the cream sauce rich and fragrant.
Black bread sliced thick, the crust dark and crackling.
Pickled vegetables in jewel-toned jars—beets, cucumbers, cabbage, things I couldn't identify.
"Nikolai's grandmother's recipes," Sophie explained, guiding me toward a seat. "We take turns cooking. It's the only way to keep the boys civilized."
"You'd be amazed how badly they eat when left to their own devices," Maya added. She was already serving, piling my plate with food I hadn't asked for but somehow desperately needed. "Konstantin once survived three days on protein shakes and spite."
"That was a work emergency," Konstantin protested from across the table. He'd settled Katerina in a high chair between himself and Nikolai, the baby already gumming a piece of bread with serious concentration. "I was busy."
"You were stubborn. There's a difference."
The banter flowed around me like water. Easy, familiar, the rhythm of people who'd weathered hard things together and come out knowing each other's edges. Nikolai's dry observations. Konstantin's booming laugh. Sophie's gentle corrections. Maya's sharp wit.
And Maks, beside me, his hand finding my thigh beneath the table. Anchoring me to the moment when my brain wanted to float away on the sheer overwhelm of being welcomed.
The food was incredible.
I hadn't realized how hungry I was until I started eating.
The stroganoff was rich and savory, the pelmeni perfectly seasoned, the black bread dense and satisfying in a way commercial bread never managed.
Every bite was comfort. Every dish felt like someone had poured love into a recipe and served it on porcelain.
"You're not eating enough," Maya observed. She was watching me with those medical eyes, probably cataloging my weight, my pallor, the signs of too many missed meals.
"I'm eating plenty."
"You're eating like a tiny bird." She smiled, taking the sting out of the words. "Appropriate, I suppose."
Sophie laughed. "Maya tries to feed everyone. It's her love language."
"Second only to medical interrogations," Konstantin agreed. "She gave me a full physical three days after we met. I was terrified."
"You had a wound. It was appropriate that you were terrified."
The conversation ebbed and flowed. Stories I didn't fully understand—references to conflicts and close calls and the dangers of the life they'd chosen.
But threaded through all of it, love. The way Nikolai looked at Sophie when she laughed.
The way Maya's hand found Konstantin's automatically, like breathing.
The way both women included me in inside jokes I didn't understand yet, translating context, making space.
Katerina threw a piece of bread at her father's face.
Nikolai caught it without looking, his reflexes terrifying even in domestic moments. But his expression when he turned to his daughter was pure softness. The kind of love that remade a person from the inside out.
Maya caught my eye across the table.
The look she gave me was knowing. Not intrusive—not the social assessment I usually dreaded, the neurotypical evaluation of whether I was being normal enough. This was recognition. Understanding. The acknowledgment of someone who saw beneath the surface.
She knew.
They both knew—Sophie with her gentle eyes, Maya with her medical perception. They knew what the collar meant, even hidden beneath my dress. Knew what I was to Maks, what he was to me. Knew the shape of the love we'd built across five months of screens and three days of devastating reality.
And they were welcoming me anyway.
Not despite what I was. Because of it.
Maya raised her wine glass slightly. A toast that was just for me, invisible to everyone else at the table. A welcome that said: you're one of us now.
My throat tightened.
I raised my water glass in return.
And something in my chest that had been braced for rejection finally, tentatively, began to unfold.
S ophie's hand found my arm as the dishes were being cleared.
Light touch. Deliberate. The kind of contact that asked permission even as it made contact. Her grey-blue eyes held something I couldn't quite read—not the careful assessment of Nikolai, not the medical cataloguing of Maya. Something softer. Conspiratorial.
"Come with us." Her voice was pitched low, for my ears only. "We want to show you something."
Maya appeared at her shoulder, wine glass abandoned on the table behind her. The two women exchanged a look I didn't understand—the shorthand of people who'd already discussed something and agreed.
I glanced at Maks.
He was deep in conversation with Konstantin, something about shipment routes and security protocols. But he must have felt my attention, because his hand found mine under the table and squeezed. Go. The message was clear even without words. You're safe with them.
I wasn't sure that was true. But I followed anyway.
The stairs were wide, the carpet plush beneath my feet.
My brain cataloged details automatically—the photographs on the walls, multiple generations of Besharovs in formal and informal poses.
A wedding photo that must have been Nikolai and Sophie, her white dress flowing, his expression softer than I'd yet seen it.
A candid shot of Konstantin laughing, his scars visible but somehow less stark when his whole face was animated with joy.
A family that documented itself. That valued permanence.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was quieter. Softer, somehow—the lighting warmer, the colors gentler. Sophie led the way, Maya falling into step beside me like a medical escort. Neither woman spoke. The anticipation built with each step, my heart rate climbing for reasons I couldn't explain.
Sophie stopped at a door painted pale lavender.
"This is our space," she said quietly. "Mine and Maya's. And now yours, if you want it."
She opened the door.
The room beyond was not what I expected.