59. Octavia
The car rumbles along the road as buildings rise around us, lighting up the dark sky.
Vasiliy’s blue eyes sparkle in the dim lighting, holding so many thoughts and questions that I can’t keep up.
I haven’t dropped his hand since I found it.
With the small child sleeping between us, that singular point of contact is the only thing holding my mind steady.
The car jerks in traffic, and a horn blares into the air. Anya blinks awake, lifting her little head from my lap.
“It’s alright,” I soothe, drawing my free hand over her brown curls. “We’ll be home soon.”
She blinks. I’m not prepared for the trust that fills her eyes.
It hits my chest like a fucking typhoon.
That shade of blue is so similar to Vasiliy’s that my mouth dries.
She doesn’t say another word before dropping her head back onto my thigh.
After a few minutes, little puffs of air tickle my leg, evening out into relaxed snores.
I’ve known about the child for months. We’ve discussed her in quiet fantasies and concerned speculations, but I only ever saw her in terms of Vasiliy. I had to retrieve her for him. We needed her out of his uncle’s grasp so she could no longer be used as leverage.
So, naturally, I was unprepared for the wave of possessiveness that crashed into my carefully reconstructed mind at the child’s presence. It’s the only thing that’s managed to interrupt the dominant bloodlust.
Mine.
This kid is mine.
Not only because she shares blood with the reason I keep breathing. It’s more than that. I’ve never wanted to have children—not with those terrible words still clanging around in my head.
Condemned children create condemned children.
I have no interest in making a new life in this world, only to leave it behind on those very steps.
But this girl? She’s not condemned. I won’t allow it.
She will never spend a night on a cot, wondering if the lady who strolled in to choose a kid will return in the morning.
She will never slip down the fire escape, simply because no one cares whether she makes it to the street.
I don’t know shit about being a parent, but I’ll learn. I promise, I think, brushing back her soft hair. Vasiliy and I will build you a pedestal so high that you will never have to see the pit we climbed out of.
For the first time since Dad died, I see a future beyond my looming revenge. A bright streak of hope, sleeping on my lap. I will keep my family safe. There is no line too bloody.