Nikolai (Underworld Daddies #4)

Chapter 13

Sophie

The morning light filtered through half-closed curtains, painting Nikolai's bedroom in shades of gold and bronze. I woke slowly, my body heavy with the kind of contentment that came from a full day at the beach yesterday—sun and sand and Nikolai's careful attention to my sunscreen application. His arm was draped across my waist, solid and warm.

I was safe. That knowledge settled in my bones like truth instead of hope.

Nikolai stirred behind me, his breathing changing from sleep to wakefulness. His hand splayed across my stomach, pulling me closer, and he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck that made me shiver for entirely non-traumatic reasons.

"Morning, printsessa," he murmured against my skin. "Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," I said, then winced. Bad metaphor. But he just hummed agreement and extracted himself with careful precision, like he was aware my knee needed space to wake up before I did.

"Stay," he said. "I'll make breakfast."

I watched him leave—gray sweatpants and bare chest, hair sleep-mussed in ways that shouldn't be legal—and let myself sprawl across the California king like a starfish claiming territory. His sheets smelled like him. Sandalwood and something sharper, bright and citrusy. I could get used to this. Waking up in his bed. Being claimed by his scent. Belonging somewhere that felt like home.

Twenty minutes later, I padded into the kitchen wearing his t-shirt and my sleep shorts. He'd set the island with actual place settings—cloth napkins, good coffee in matching mugs, a spread that looked like he'd robbed a five-star brunch buffet. Blini with caviar and sour cream. Fresh berries. Perfectly soft-scrambled eggs with chives. Orange juice in crystal glasses.

"You know I would've been happy with cereal," I said, sliding onto my usual barstool.

"I know." He poured my coffee, adding cream without asking because he'd memorized how I took it. "But you deserve better than cereal."

We ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Yesterday's beach trip hung between us like a photograph developing—all those careful moments where he'd helped me feel safe being small in public. Building sandcastles. Collecting shells. Him reading to me under the umbrella while I colored in my book. Each memory was warm and perfect and terrifying because wanting something this much meant it could be taken away.

"Sophie." He set down his fork, his gray eyes finding mine with that intensity that always made my pulse stutter. "I've been thinking, sweetheart, and I want to take you somewhere today."

My stomach did something complicated. "Where?"

"A place where you can be Little. Really Little. Without fear." He paused, choosing words with his usual precision. "Have you heard of Littlespace NYC?"

I shook my head, but my hands had already found the edge of the counter, holding on.

"It's a private facility in Manhattan," he continued. "Caters specifically to the DDlg community. Safe, vetted, with playrooms and activities and caregivers who understand regression. Everything is discrete, secure. NDAs required. The kind of place where you don't have to worry about judgment or exposure."

The description should have sounded appealing. It probably would have, if my chest wasn't currently trying to collapse in on itself.

"Why?" I managed.

"Because you haven't fully let go since Sergei." His voice gentled, but the observation landed like a physical weight. "You hover at the edge. Yesterday, I felt you pulling back. You stay partially aware. I can see you, devotchka. Protecting yourself."

He wasn't wrong. Even when I slipped into little space at home—coloring in his lap or playing with my stuffies—some part of me stayed vigilant. Watching. Making sure I was safe. Making sure the world wouldn't end if I stopped paying attention for five minutes.

"That's normal," I said, defensive without meaning to be. "After what happened—"

"I know." He reached across the island, covering my hand with his. "And I'm not criticizing. I'm observing. You deserve to feel completely safe when you're small. Not constantly monitoring whether something terrible is about to happen."

My throat closed around words I couldn't form. The memory of Sergei dying in my lap while I was little—blood on my hands, his life leaving while I was too small to understand, too vulnerable to save him—lived in my bones. Being fully little meant being fully defenseless.

"I don’t know if I can," I whispered.

"I want to give you a space where you don't have to protect yourself," Nikolai continued, his thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. "Where you can be completely small. Where I'll keep you safe. Where the only thing you have to worry about is whether to play with blocks or stuffed animals."

The image he painted was so appealing it hurt. Being that small again. That free. Not having to maintain the exhausting vigilance that came with partial regression.

"What if I can't come back?" The fear escaped before I could stop it. "What if I go that deep and get stuck?"

"You won't." He said it with absolute certainty. "Your mind is too brilliant to get lost. But even if you did struggle coming back up, I'd help you. That's what I'm for."

I stared at our joined hands. His were so much larger than mine, capable of violence but choosing gentleness. Choosing me.

"What if the memories overwhelm me?" I asked quietly. "What if being that little just makes me relive—"

"Then we leave." He leaned forward, bringing himself closer to my eye level. "We'll go slow. Any time you want to stop, we stop. Your safeword works there just like it works at home. But Sophie—" His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I think you need this. I think you need to know you can be Little again without something terrible happening."

My eyes burned with tears I refused to shed into my overpriced eggs. He was right. I knew he was right. But knowing and doing were different creatures entirely.

"I'm scared," I admitted.

"I know." He stood, moving around the island to pull me into his arms. "But I'll be with you the whole time. Every second. You won't be alone in your vulnerability."

I pressed my face into his chest, breathing in sandalwood and safety. Yesterday at the beach, I'd managed to be little in public because he'd created such careful boundaries around us. Made me feel protected even in the open. Maybe he could do the same in a place designed specifically for this. Maybe I could trust him enough to try.

"Okay," I whispered into his shirt. "Let's try."

When I pulled back to look at his face, the relief there was profound. This mattered to him too—not just my healing, but being the Daddy who helped me heal. Being worthy of the trust I was placing in his capable hands.

"Thank you," he said, kissing my forehead. "I promise, baby girl. Nothing bad will happen."

I wanted to believe him. I chose to believe him. Because the alternative—staying locked in partial regression forever, never knowing if I could be fully Little again—was worse than the fear of trying.

The car ride to Chelsea passed in a blur of Sunday morning Manhattan—empty streets and closed storefronts, the city still sleeping off Saturday night. I watched the buildings slide past through tinted windows, my hands twisted together in my lap hard enough that my fingers went numb. Nikolai's hand covered both of mine, his thumb finding my racing pulse, and he didn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just held on while I tried not to spiral.

The building was unremarkable from the outside—gray stone, maybe six stories, the kind of place you'd walk past without noticing. No signs. No indication of what happened behind those discrete windows. Just an address in brass numbers next to a buzzer system that probably cost more than most people's cars.

Nikolai pressed the button. A pause, then: "Name and appointment time, please."

"Besharov. Ten o'clock."

The door clicked open without further comment.

Inside was all professional polish—marble floors, recessed lighting, a security desk staffed by a woman in a tailored suit who looked like she could kill you with her letter opener. She checked our IDs with the kind of thoroughness usually reserved for international borders, then slid two NDAs across the desk.

"Standard confidentiality agreement," she explained. "Protects all parties involved. Please initial each page."

My hands shook signing my name—Sophie Katerina Volkov, all three parts of me documented on legal paper that promised this secret would stay locked behind these walls. Nikolai signed his with steady precision, then returned both documents with a nod that was probably some kind of pakhan-to-security acknowledgment.

Beyond the lobby, everything changed.

The hallway was painted soft lavender, the lighting warm instead of institutional. The floors were covered in plush carpet that swallowed sound. And everywhere—everywhere—was evidence of care. Of thought. Of understanding exactly what people came here to find.

A woman emerged from a side office, her smile genuine and warm. Mid-forties maybe, with kind eyes and a clipboard that she carried like it was the most important thing in the world.

"Mr. Besharov," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Jessica. We spoke on the phone."

"Jessica." He shook her hand, then turned slightly toward me. "This is my girlfriend, Sophie."

"Sophie." She looked at me directly, not through me or past me the way some people did when they realized what you were here for. "It's wonderful to meet you. Thank you for trusting us with your care today."

My throat was too tight to respond, but I managed a nod.

"Let me show you to your room," Jessica said, already moving down the hallway. "Mr. Besharov requested the Garden Room, which I think you'll find perfect for a first visit."

We passed other rooms as we walked. Through open doors, I caught glimpses of different worlds. A princess room with a canopy bed draped in pink silk and a trunk overflowing with dress-up clothes. A nursery complete with a crib that could definitely fit an adult and a changing table that made my face burn with implications I wasn't ready to process. An art studio with easels and finger paints and paper covering every available surface. A library with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with picture books, the spines arranged by color in a rainbow that made my photographic memory catalog every title automatically.

Each room was a different kind of sanctuary. A different way to be small.

"We have fifteen themed spaces total," Jessica explained, her voice low and soothing like she knew I was probably spiraling. "But the Garden Room tends to be popular for first-time visitors. It's less . . . specific. More open to interpretation."

We stopped at a door near the end of the hall. Jessica pulled out a keycard, but paused before swiping it.

"Before we go in, I want you to know what to expect." She looked at me again with those kind eyes. "The room is yours for as long as you need it today. It locks from the inside—you control access. There's a panic button on the wall if you need immediate assistance, and a phone that connects directly to my desk if you want to talk or need anything. The bathroom is attached and has both adult and child-friendly options." She paused. "There's no wrong way to be Little here, Sophie. Some people play. Some people just sit and exist in the space. Some people aren't ready to engage at all, and that's okay too. This is your experience. Your regression. Your healing."

The words were probably meant to be comforting, but they just highlighted how vulnerable I was about to be. How exposed.

The door opened onto paradise designed by someone who understood exactly what broken Littles needed.

The walls were painted with a garden mural—flowers and trees and butterflies so detailed they could have been photographs. The carpet was soft grass-green, thick enough that walking on it barefoot would feel like actual grass. Beanbags and cushions were scattered around in jewel tones—deep purple, emerald green, sapphire blue. Shelves lined one wall, packed with toys and stuffed animals organized by type. A play kitchen occupied one corner, all pastel colors and realistic details. And in the opposite corner, a reading nook with a rocking chair and a lamp that cast golden light like perpetual sunset.

It was beautiful. It was perfect. It was absolutely terrifying.

"The toys are all cleaned between uses," Jessica continued, gesturing to the shelves. "The stuffed animals are yours to keep if you bond with any. We have activities in the closet—coloring books, puzzles, building blocks. The kitchen has pretend food, but I can bring real snacks if you'd like. Just call."

She moved to the small table near the play kitchen, showing us a binder. "This has all our protocols, emergency procedures, and a menu of additional services if you need them. But honestly?" She looked at me with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Most people never open it. They just play."

Just play. Like it was that simple. Like I could flip a switch and become small without three years of trauma screaming that being vulnerable meant people died.

"Take all the time you need," Jessica said, and this time she addressed me exclusively. "This space is yours."

Then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that made my stomach drop.

I stood frozen in the middle of the Garden Room, surrounded by everything Little Sophie had ever wanted, and couldn't move. My adult self was cataloging exits—one door to the hallway, one to the bathroom, window too high to be useful. Logging details—seventeen stuffed animals on the visible shelves, three different types of play food in the kitchen, two beanbags and four cushions. Processing contingencies—panic button left of the door, phone on the table, Nikolai's phone in his pocket if all else failed.

I couldn't turn it off. Couldn't stop the constant threat assessment that had kept me alive through my father's world and Sergei's death and everything after.

"Sophie." Nikolai's voice cut through the spiral gently. "Breathe, baby girl."

I sucked in air that tasted like artificial flowers and new carpet. My hands were shaking. My knee was starting to ache from standing too still. And underneath all the anxiety was want so acute it hurt—Little Sophie desperately reaching for the stuffed bunny on the second shelf, for the play kitchen's plastic vegetables, for permission to just be small without consequence.

But I was frozen. Caught between two versions of myself, unable to choose.

Nikolai moved to the rocking chair with that deliberate grace he used when he knew I was spiraling, settling into it like he had all the time in the world. He patted his lap, his voice dropping into that gentle Daddy tone that always bypassed my anxiety and spoke directly to some deeper part of me. "Come here, baby girl. Let's just sit for a while."

My feet moved before my brain gave permission. Three steps across soft carpet that felt like actual grass, then I was climbing into his lap, letting him arrange me against his chest like I was something precious instead of something broken. His arms came around me solid and warm, and he started rocking. Slow. Steady. The kind of rhythm that matched a heartbeat or a lullaby or the ocean I'd grown up near.

"That's my good girl," he murmured against my hair. "Just breathe with me. In and out. Nothing else matters right now except breathing."

I matched my inhales to his chest rising, my exhales to his falling. The rocking continued. Back and forth. Safe and predictable.

"I'm so proud of you," he continued, his voice low and hypnotic. "So proud that you came here. So proud that you're trying. So proud of how brave you are, even when you're scared."

The praise settled in my chest like warm honey. I was brave. I was trying. Those things were true even if I was also terrified.

"You're safe here," he said. "Completely safe. Nothing bad can happen in this room. I won't let it. Your Daddy is here, and I'm watching over you, and you don't have to watch over yourself anymore."

Don't have to watch. The concept was foreign. Revolutionary.

"You can be as little as you need to be," Nikolai continued, his hand stroking my back in time with the rocking. "Five years old? Three? Younger? Whatever feels right. Whatever helps. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."

Five years old. I tried to remember being five—before ballet, before my mother's demands, before I understood what it meant to be a Volkov. Had I been happy then? Had there been a version of me that just played without analyzing the strategic implications of play?

"Let go," he whispered. "I've got you. You can let go now, devotchka."

My breathing was changing without me telling it to. Slower. Deeper. The tight band around my chest was loosening. The constant threat assessment running in the background of my mind was getting quieter. Not gone—I didn't think it would ever be completely gone—but receding like tide going out.

The rocking continued. His heartbeat under my ear was steady as a metronome. His voice kept murmuring reassurances—safe, loved, protected, good girl. Each word was a stone in a foundation I was building, or maybe rebuilding. A structure that said being vulnerable didn't equal being destroyed.

I was slipping. Could feel it happening. The world was getting softer around the edges, thoughts becoming simpler, the complex analysis I usually couldn't turn off simplifying into basics. Safe. Daddy. Warm. Good.

"That's it," Nikolai murmured, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "There's my baby girl. Letting go so perfectly."

The room was changing. Or I was changing. Hard to tell which. The ceiling seemed higher than before. The shelves of toys looked bigger, more exciting. The play kitchen in the corner was suddenly the most interesting thing I'd ever seen—look at the little plastic vegetables, they're so colorful, I wonder if they feel real or just pretend real.

Nikolai was bigger too. His arms around me felt more substantial, like they could protect me from anything. His chest was solid where my cheek pressed against it. His voice was deeper, the kind of deep that meant grown-up, meant safe, meant Daddy.

Daddy.

The word felt different in my head now. Not just a title or a role, but a truth. He was my Daddy and I was his little girl and that was all that mattered. Not the bratva or my past or anything complicated. Just this simple, perfect fact.

I looked up at him, and the movement took more effort than it should have. My body felt smaller. My thoughts felt younger. Everything was simpler, clearer, like someone had wiped fog off a window and now I could finally see what was important.

"Daddy?" My voice came out small. So small. Maybe three years old. Maybe younger.

His eyes got shiny when I said it—that look grown-ups get when something makes them happy and sad at the same time. "Yes, baby girl. Daddy's here."

I was fully little now. Could feel it in how the world had rearranged itself. Everything was brighter, bigger, more. The anxiety that usually lived in my chest was gone, replaced by wonder and curiosity and the simple joy of being small and safe.

"Can I play?" The question emerged with pure, uncomplicated want. The toys were right there. The play kitchen. The stuffed animals. All of it was for me, and I wanted to explore everything, touch everything, experience everything with this new lens that made the world magical instead of dangerous.

Nikolai's smile was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. "Of course you can play. That's what we're here for, sweetheart."

He helped me down from his lap—my legs were wobbly like they forgot how tall they were supposed to be—and I stood in the middle of the Garden Room with my whole body humming with excitement. Where to start? What to explore first?

The stuffed animals called to me. I gravitated toward the shelf, fingers reaching for a soft bunny with floppy ears and black button eyes. He was perfect. Absolutely perfect. And next to him was a pink elephant with a trunk that curled and felt so soft I wanted to press my face into it.

"This one," I said, clutching the bunny to my chest. "And this one." The elephant joined the bunny, and I turned to show Daddy my choices, needing his approval, needing to know I'd picked right.

"Those are wonderful," he said, and he meant it. I could hear it in his voice. "What are their names?"

Names. They needed names. I studied them seriously, thinking hard. "This is Mr. Hoppy," I decided, holding up the bunny. "And this is—" I looked at the elephant's wise little face. "This is Rosie. 'Cause she's pink like a rose."

"Mr. Hoppy and Rosie," Nikolai repeated, nodding like I'd just said something very important. "Those are perfect names for perfect friends."

I hugged Mr. Hoppy and Rosie closer, something in my chest feeling full and warm and right. I was little. Really little. And nothing bad was happening. Daddy was watching me with soft eyes, smiling like I was doing everything exactly right, and the world was safe enough to play in.

"What should we do first?" I asked, looking around the room with fresh eyes. Everything was an adventure waiting to happen. The play kitchen with its pretend food. The art supplies in the corner. The reading nook where Daddy could read me stories. So many possibilities.

"Whatever you want, baby girl," he said. "This is your time. Your space. Your adventure."

Mine. The word felt powerful. This was mine—the room, the toys, the time, the safety. All of it was mine, and I could do whatever I wanted without worrying about what came next.

I'd forgotten what that felt like. Forgotten that being little could be joyful instead of dangerous. But here, in this room with Daddy watching over me, I was remembering. Reclaiming something I thought Sergei's death had taken forever.

I was Little Sophie again. Fully, completely, safely Little.

And it was perfect.

The play kitchen was calling to me with its bright colors and tiny plastic food that looked almost real. I set Mr. Hoppy and Rosie on one of the beanbags where they could watch, then made my way to the little stove with its pretend knobs that clicked when I turned them. The sound was satisfying. Click click click. I did it again just to hear it.

"Whatcha making, baby girl?" Daddy asked from his chair. He'd moved it closer so he could see better, could watch me play.

"Tea," I decided, picking up the plastic kettle. "And cookies. 'Cause that's what you have at tea parties."

I found tiny plastic cookies in a basket—they were brown and had pretend chocolate chips—and arranged them very carefully on a pink plate. Three cookies. That was the right number for tea time. Then I poured pretend tea into two cups, making the pouring sound with my mouth. "Pssssshhhhh."

"That sounds delicious," Daddy said seriously.

I carried the plate and cups over to him, walking very carefully so I wouldn't spill the pretend tea. That would be bad. You couldn't waste tea.

"Here," I said, offering him a cup. "It's chamomile. That's good for you."

"Thank you, sweetheart." He took the cup and pretended to sip it, his eyes closing like it was the best tea he'd ever tasted. "Perfect temperature. Not too hot, not too cold."

"I'm a good cook," I informed him.

"You're an excellent cook." He took a pretend cookie from the plate I was holding. "May I?"

I nodded seriously. Daddy took a bite of air and cookie, chewing thoughtfully like he was tasting real chocolate chips and real cookie and everything.

"Incredible. Sensational," he pronounced. "Best cookie I've ever had. Could I maybe have another?"

Pride bloomed in my chest, warm and bright. I'd made something good. Something Daddy liked. "You can have two more. But save one for me."

"Deal."

We had our tea party, him asking me questions about my cooking process and me explaining very seriously about how you had to turn the knobs just right and make sure the cookies didn't burn. He listened to every word like it mattered. Like I mattered.

When the tea party was done, I noticed the art supplies in the corner. Paints. Paper. The kind of mess that usually made grown-ups mad.

"Can I paint?" I asked, looking at Daddy for permission.

"Of course. Want some help setting up?"

We spread out the paper on the floor—big sheets that Daddy said I could get as messy as I wanted. The paints were in squeeze bottles, bright colors that looked like rainbow and happiness. I picked purple first because purple was my favorite, squeezing a blob onto the paper.

"Like this?" I asked.

"However you want," Daddy said. "There's no wrong way to make art."

So I made art. Squeezed colors onto paper and smooshed them around with my hands, feeling the paint squish between my fingers. It was cold and wet and kind of slimy but in a good way. I added blue. Then yellow. Then red until all the colors mixed together in the middle.

"It's a garden," I explained, using my whole hand to spread purple across the top. "With sky and flowers and maybe a butterfly. See?"

"I see it," Daddy said. "It's beautiful."

I looked at my hands—completely covered in paint, multiple colors mixed together. Then I looked at Daddy, an idea forming.

"Can I put some on you?" I asked shyly.

"On me?"

I nodded. "So you're part of the art too."

His smile was bright enough to rival the sun. "I'd be honored to be part of your art."

I reached out very carefully and pressed my paint-covered hand to his cheek, leaving a print in rainbow colors. He didn't flinch. Didn't complain. Just smiled at me like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

"Perfect," he said. "Now I'm a masterpiece too."

We painted for a while longer—me making handprints and swirls, Daddy occasionally adding a dot or line when I asked him to help. The paper became covered in color and joy and the evidence that I was allowed to be messy without consequence.

When my arms started getting tired, Daddy helped me wash up at the bathroom sink. The paint came off easily with warm water and soap, swirling down the drain in colorful spirals. He dried my hands carefully with a soft towel, paying attention to each finger like they were important.

"Story time?" he suggested.

I nodded, suddenly aware of how tired I was. Playing was exhausting in the best way—like my body had used up all its energy on joy and now needed to rest.

The reading nook was perfect. Daddy settled into the rocking chair and pulled me into his lap, and I curled against him like a cat finding the warmest spot. The bookshelf next to us was packed with picture books—bright covers with animals and adventures.

"Pick one," Daddy said.

I chose a book about a brave little mouse who went on an adventure. Daddy read in his storytelling voice—different voices for different characters, making the mouse squeak and the owl hoot. I listened with my whole body, my thumb finding its way to my mouth without me deciding to put it there.

Sucking my thumb. I hadn't done that since Sergei. It was babyish. But it felt . . . good. Safe. And Daddy didn't say anything. Just kept reading and stroking my hair like this was completely normal. Like I was allowed to be this small.

We read three books. Then four. I was floating in that perfect space where I wasn't quite sleepy but wasn't quite awake either. Just existing in the moment, safe in Daddy's arms while he read me stories about brave creatures and magical places.

"Is baby girl hungry?" he asked eventually.

I considered. My tummy was making small noises. "Maybe a little."

From somewhere—a bag I hadn't noticed him bring—Daddy pulled out snacks. Juice boxes with bendy straws. Goldfish crackers in the rainbow kind. Apple slices cut into stars, just like he did at home.

He opened the juice box for me because the straws were tricky, then held the box while I drank. The juice was cold and sweet and exactly what I needed. Then he fed me crackers one at a time, letting me munch while I stayed curled in his lap.

"Careful, don't choke," he said gently when I tried to take too many at once. "Small bites."

The apple slices were crispy and tasted like happiness. I ate them slowly, savoring each star-shaped piece. Daddy wiped my mouth with a napkin when juice dribbled down my chin, so gentle I barely felt it.

"Thank you for taking care of me," I said, the words muffled around a goldfish.

"Always, baby girl." He kissed the top of my head. "That's what Daddies do."

I looked up at him—at his kind gray eyes and the paint still smudged on his cheek that I'd put there. At the man who'd brought me to this safe place and watched over me while I played and never once made me feel silly or wrong or too much.

"I love you, Daddy," I said, and meant it with my whole heart.

His eyes went shiny again, the way they had when I first called him Daddy today. "I love you too, sweetheart. So, so much."

Time did something weird in the Garden Room—stretched and compressed simultaneously until I couldn't tell if we'd been there three hours or three minutes. But my body knew. The kind of bone-deep tired that came from emotional catharsis combined with actual playing made my eyelids heavy, and I found myself drifting in Nikolai's lap, caught between little and big.

The transition back was gentler than I expected. Not a sharp snap into adult consciousness, but a gradual surfacing. Like swimming up from deep water toward light, my thoughts becoming more complex with each metaphorical stroke upward.

"How do you feel?" Nikolai asked, his voice still soft but with an edge of concern. Not Daddy voice exactly, but not quite just Nikolai either. Something in between.

"Amazing." The word came out with more adult inflection than Little Sophie would have used. I was coming back up. "Tired. But good tired. The kind where your body's been somewhere important."

His hand stroked my hair in that familiar four-count rhythm. "You did so well, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

I shifted in his lap, becoming more aware of my body as mine instead of something small and simple. My knee was starting to ache from being curled up so long. My fingers were still faintly stained with paint. And my heart felt simultaneously full and fragile—like I'd accessed something precious that could still be taken away.

"I didn't think I could do that again," I said quietly, fully big now but with the emotional vulnerability of little still clinging to me. "Be that small. That free. Without something terrible happening."

"But you did." He cupped my face gently, making me look at him. "And nothing terrible happened. You were Little, and you were safe, and the world didn't end."

The observation settled in my chest like proof. Evidence against the trauma narrative that said being vulnerable meant being destroyed. I'd been completely regressed—younger than I'd been in years, maybe younger than I'd ever been with Sergei—and I'd survived it. More than survived. I'd thrived.

"Thank you," I whispered. "For bringing me here. For knowing I needed this."

"Always."

We sat there for a few more minutes, me getting steadier in my big headspace, him just holding me while I completed the transition. Eventually, though, the real world started pressing in. We couldn't stay in the Garden Room forever, no matter how much I wanted to.

"We should probably go," I said reluctantly.

Nikolai nodded but made no move to rush me. "Whenever you're ready."

Ready felt like a relative term when leaving meant giving up this sanctuary, but I made myself stand on legs that remembered how to be adult-sized. Mr. Hoppy and Rosie were still on the beanbag where I'd left them. I picked them up, holding them close.

"Can I keep them?" I asked, then felt silly for asking. Jessica had said the stuffed animals were mine to keep if I bonded with them.

"Of course," Nikolai said. "They're family now."

Family. The word made my throat tight in the best way.

We walked back through the hallway of themed rooms, past the princess room and the nursery and the art studio. Each door we passed felt like leaving behind a possibility, a different version of little I could have explored. But I had the Garden Room. I had Mr. Hoppy and Rosie. I had proof that I could be Little and safe simultaneously.

Jessica was at the main desk when we emerged, her smile knowing and kind. "How was your visit?"

"Perfect," I said, and meant it with every atom of my being.

"I'm so glad. You're welcome back anytime." She handed Nikolai a card. "We also have evening sessions, if that works better for your schedule. And themed playgroups once a month, if you're interested in community."

Community. Other Littles and their caregivers, all finding safety in this discrete building in Chelsea. The idea was appealing and terrifying in equal measure.

"We'll think about it," Nikolai said smoothly, pocketing the card. His hand found my lower back, guiding me toward the exit.

The Sunday afternoon sunlight hit like a physical force when we stepped outside. The real world with its traffic noise and strangers walking past and the constant low-level threat assessment my brain automatically ran. The bubble of the Garden Room was already fading, replaced by New York City's aggressive reality.

Nikolai's phone buzzed as we reached the car. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his entire body language shifted. The gentle Daddy who'd read me stories disappeared, replaced by something harder. Colder. The Pakhan rising to the surface like a predator scenting blood.

"It's Kostya," he said, his voice flat. "I need to take this."

He answered on the second ring. "Talk to me."

I couldn't hear Kostya's words, but I watched Nikolai's face go through a series of micro-expressions that my photographic memory cataloged automatically. Surprise. Concern. Anger barely leashed. That particular tightness around his eyes that meant he was calculating contingencies at speed.

"When?" Nikolai asked, his free hand clenching into a fist. "How many photographs?" A pause. "No, we're in Chelsea. Be there in twenty minutes."

He ended the call, and when he looked at me, the expression was pure Pakhan. Clinical. Assessing. Already running threat scenarios and protective protocols.

"What's wrong?" I asked, though I already knew it was bad. You didn't look like that for good news.

"The Belyaevs," he said, voice tight. "Kostya's informant came through with intelligence. They've been watching us. Have photographs. From Brighton Beach yesterday."

My stomach dropped somewhere near my feet. Yesterday. The beach. When I'd been little in public, building sandcastles, letting Nikolai read to me under the umbrella. When we'd thought we were safe because we'd been careful.

"How much did they see?" The question came out smaller than I intended.

His jaw clenched. "Enough. They know you're important to me now. Not just an asset from the auction. Not just a tactical acquisition. They know you're—"

He didn't finish, but he didn't need to. They knew I was his weak spot. His vulnerability.

Daddy was in danger.