Chapter Forty-Five
Maron
I push the door to the guest room open.
Sharon’s still cradled against my chest, her tiny frame feeling more fragile than spun glass. Those small fingers are locked around my neck with a strength born of terror. The weight of her, the soft scent of her hair – it’s dragging up ghosts I’ve spent years trying to bury. Cordelia. The daughter I lost. The memory slams into me, stealing my breath.
When I try to lay Sharon on the bed, she clings tighter, her body going rigid. I don’t fight it. Instead, I settle on the edge, letting her curl into me like she’s trying to disappear into my chest.
"You’re safe now, Sharon. I got you," I murmur, the words feeling pathetically weak against the magnitude of what she’s been through.
Her eyes are wide open but it’s as if they’re seeing something else, something that makes my trigger finger itch. I brush her hair back, my hands feeling too harsh against her delicate skin that’s never known violence before today.
"It’s over," I tell her, fighting to keep the rage and worry from my voice. "No one’s going to hurt you again. I swear it."
Silence stretches between us, broken only by her shallow breathing. The vice around my chest tightens, but I keep talking, words spilling out like blood from a wound. It’s all I can do.
"You did good, kid. Tough as nails, just like your mom. She’s gonna be over the moon to see you."
I ramble on, each promise feeling more desperate than the last. But Sharon’s still locked away somewhere I can’t follow. I hold her closer, as if my strength alone could shield her from whatever nightmare she’s reliving. If I could rip her fear away and take it into myself, I’d do it without hesitation. But I’m powerless here, reduced to nothing but a shield of flesh and bone around her small body.
With my free hand, I pull out my phone and dial my doctor to come and see her. Then, I send Mindy a text.
"She’s here. In the guestroom. She’s okay, but won’t speak."
I stare at the screen, willing those three dots to appear. Nothing but darkness stares back. Has she lost her phone? She should be tearing the world apart for news of her daughter. Our daughter.
Our family physician, Dr. Gary McCoy arrives in less than two minutes, efficient as always. I explain the situation in clipped sentences, my eyes drawn back to Sharon’s curled form on the bed. Something raw claws at my chest. It’s more than just rediscovering fatherhood – it’s about her, about Mindy, about this chance at a family I didn’t know I was starving for until it was almost ripped away.
I watch the doctor’s face like a hawk as he examines her. While he checks vitals and scribbles his notes, ice crystallizes in my veins. Rachel fucking Anderson. That bitch. My mind plays out scenarios of retribution, each more violent than the last. I can almost taste her terror, hear her begging for mercy as I make her pay for every second my daughter spent in fear.
"Let’s step outside," Dr. McCoy suggests, casting a final glance at Sharon. She’s motionless on the bed now, eyes sealed shut. I can’t tell if it’s sleep or if she’s barricaded herself behind those delicate eyelids, hiding from a world that’s shown her its dark side.
Rachel will pay.
"Post-traumatic stress," the doctor explains in the hallway, his voice low and clinical. "Her nervous system is protecting itself by shutting down."
"She has selective mutism," I growl.
"Ah." Understanding crosses his face. "That makes more sense. Trauma can force the speech centers into complete shutdown, especially in cases like hers."
"Will she be okay?" The question comes out like gravel.
He nods. "With time and proper care, yes. But she’ll need therapy."
I release a breath that feels like broken glass. "Thank you, doc."
His hand lands on my shoulder. "Relax, Mr. Korolev. Right now, she just needs rest. And her mother by her side."
As if summoned by his words, I hear the sound of frantic footsteps echoing down the hallway. Mindy appears, her face a roadmap of tear tracks and terror, chest heaving with panicked breaths. She barely acknowledges the doctor, her wild eyes locking onto mine.
"Where is she?" The words tear from her throat like shrapnel.
"Inside," I gesture toward the guest room and she’s moving before I can even finish my sentence. I mutter a quick thanks to the doctor and follow her in. Sharon lies curled on the bed, her face impossibly peaceful for someone who’s just been kidnapped. Her breathing is soft, almost fragile in the heavy silence.
Mindy approaches the bed like she’s in a trance. Her hand trembles as she strokes Sharon’s hair, tears tracking silver down her face as she presses a kiss to our daughter’s forehead.
"Baby," she whispers, her voice raw with relief. "Mommy’s here. You’re safe now."
I hang back in the shadows, silently guarding their reunion. "You two are staying here," I tell Mindy, my tone brooking no argument. "I’m arranging surveillance, security detail, the works. Everything. No arguments."
For a moment, I think she’s going to fight me on this. That familiar defiant fire flashes in her eyes. But then her gaze falls back to Sharon, and the resistance bleeds out of her.
She nods, whispering, "I think that’s a good idea. For now." The silence stretches between us, heavy with seven years of unspoken words. Finally, she breaks it. "Thank you," she says softly. "For everything you’ve done. For bringing her back. I could never thank you enough."
I nod, but guilt slams into me like a fucking wrecking ball. This is my fault. All of it. The price of being who I am, of the life I’ve led. Every enemy I’ve made, every throat I’ve cut, every fucking decision that led me here - it all comes crashing down. Playing Russian roulette with my own life is one thing. But Sharon? Mindy? I can’t allow them to pay for my sins. Not again.
My eyes drift to Mindy as she tends to our sleeping daughter, and something shifts in my chest. Nothing else matters now - not our tumultuous past, the lies I told myself, the blood on my hands, or the empire built. We have a daughter now. That makes us family. And it’s my job to give them the safety and love I never thought I deserved to offer.
I move closer, drawn by some primal force I can’t name. When I cup Mindy’s face, my calloused hand against her silk-soft skin, time stops. Her pulse races beneath my palm like a trapped bird, and something flickers in her eyes. Desire? Love? The same fucking hunger that’s eating me alive?
Before I can put my finger on it, she breaks away, turning back to Sharon. "I should stay with her," she murmurs. "She doesn’t know you’re her father yet."
I nod, dropping my hand. "Of course. I’ll be outside if you need anything."
At the doorway, I pause for one last look - Mindy and Sharon, huddled together like survivors of a storm.
My family.
I’ll paint these fucking walls with anyone who tries to hurt them again.
I exit the room, my phone already in a death grip. With practiced precision, I dial Pavel’s number. "I have a job for you, bratok ," I tell him coldly.
"I’m all ears, boss," he says.
"Remember the woman on TV? The psychiatrist Rachel Anderson?"
"Yeah. You want her gone, boss? Have her limbs removed?" The eagerness in his voice echoes my own dark urges.
I think of Sharon curled up on that bed, of Mindy’s tears. My family. My responsibility. "Track her down and bring her here." I tell Pavel. "I’d like to have a little talk with her."
"Consider it done, boss." Pavel sounds almost robotic. He knows exactly what this means. Rachel Anderson is about to suffer the consequences of her actions. And I’m not about to go easy on her.
I end the call and notice the missed calls list. Timofey tried reaching me twice while I was talking. That’s not like him. I’m just about to call him back when a text appears on my screen:
"Mom’s not well. It’s serious. Come now."
I stare at the screen dumbly. The message hits me like a kick to the gut and the ground shifts beneath my feet. Just when I thought I had my shit together, just when I found my daughter, life decides to remind me what a cruel bitch it can be.
"Matushka," I mutter, my legs already carrying me toward my mother’s quarters.
Looks like this fuckup of a day isn’t done with me yet.