Chapter 20
Maeve
The weeks after the council vote were stranger than fear.
Fear had rules. Fear woke you before dawn and told you to check the locks.
Fear made you count the exits, memorize bus timetables, hide yourself in a caravan and cash in places nobody looked.
Fear was exhausting but it was familiar.
It was my bad little roommate for three years, always taking up space in my head.
Peace was different because it didn't have rules.
Peace was waking up to the sound of Ivan arguing with the toaster because it had, in his words, "burned his bread.
" Peace was Gregor placing a hot water bottle at my feet without a word because I'd mentioned once, in passing, that cold toes gave me a headache.
Peace was Artem taking calls in Russian with one hand resting on Mac's bassinet like a tiny sleeping baby could stabilize his irrational thoughts.
Nobody warns you that peace is difficult. That you'll miss the adrenaline. That you'll wake up at three in the morning because nothing is wrong, and the absence of something being wrong will be weird…almost like a trap.
The house changed around us in small ways.
A basket of baby blankets appeared in the formal sitting room.
One of Ivan's knives ended up on the same shelf as a stack of board books, which caused a brief but intense discussion about appropriate nursery adjacency.
Gregor installed a second dog bed in the west hall because Fergus "required many rest positions while he trained. "
I wondered how often Gregor had an eyesight test.
And the staff stopped looking startled when I came downstairs barefoot.
The guards stopped calling me ma'am like I was about to have them deported.
And somewhere in the third week, I realized I'd stopped flinching when doors closed.
Today, I woke to silence, which was immediately suspicious. Mac usually had me up before the sun.
I stretched across the bed. Empty.
Then I saw them.
All three of them crowded around the armchair near the window like conspirators. Artem in sweatpants, bare-chested, hair still rumpled. Ivan on one side. Gregor on the other. And in Gregor's arms, wrapped in a white sleepsuit and completely unconscious, Mac.
They were just watching him breathe.
"He's still asleep," Artem murmured when he noticed I was awake. His voice was the low gravel he used when he was trying not to wake the baby, which was most of the time now.
I pushed myself up, dragging the duvet with me, and padded across the carpet. The floor was heated. I still wasn't used to the floor being heated.
"You're all up early," I whispered.
Ivan glanced at the clock. "Technically, we never went to bed."
"That's not early. That's poor management."
Artem's mouth curved. "You married into poor management."
"I married into organized crime. I assumed the organization was part of the package."
Gregor looked down at Mac. "The baby altered the schedule."
"Yes," I said. "Babies are famous for respecting operational plans."
Artem pulled me onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist. His face found the crook of my neck—right over the scar—and he inhaled like he was checking something.
"What are you thinking about?" I asked. My fingers found their way into his hair without my permission.
He looked at Mac. The tiny fingers twitching in sleep. The lips moving through some dream-feed.
"I'm trying to memorize it," he said. "Before it changes."
My heart did a little flip as I looked at one of the most dangerous men in Europe and saw a terrified father holding his breath.
I kissed his temple. "He'll still be ours when he changes."
Artem's arms tightened. "Yes."
Ivan leaned over and kissed Mac's head, then my lips, quick and warm. "I'm making coffee."
"Get the housekeeper to do it. You’re dreadful," Gregor said.
"That's insulting."
Artem lifted his head. "It is pretty bad. We need to employ a new barista."
“I can make coffee,” I said.
“You’re on maternity leave,” Gregor added and stood, Mac still tucked against his chest like a tiny tactical asset. "I'm taking him for his walk."
I stared. "His what?"
"Walk. Six a.m. Builds character." He adjusted his grip. "He needs to learn discipline early. The walks begin the foundation. By ten, firearms."
“Martial arts around four,” Ivan added, taking my hand and walking me to the door.
Mac, oblivious, produced a bubble of spit and nestled deeper into Gregor's chest.
"Right," I said slowly. "Don't break him."
"I have never broken a baby."
I stopped in the doorway. "That sentence should not need saying."
"It is reassuring."
"It is absolutely not."
Ivan’s hands held the top of the doorframe. His chest flexed. "For what it's worth, I also have never broken a baby."
"Lovely. A glowing parental résumé from the arms division." I squeezed my thighs together.
Artem nose lifted. "Are you okay?"
"I think my body is coming back to life."
Three alpha males looked at me and smiled. That’s when I realized they’d never tried to push me and I loved them for it.
Mac made one soft grunting noise.
All three of them turned at once forgetting about me in an instance. It would have been devastating if it hadn't been so sweet.
Artem rushed over to where Gregor held Mac. "Good morning," he murmured, sliding one finger into Mac's open palm.
Ivan looked over his shoulder. "He smiled."
"That's gas."
"It was emotional recognition."
"It was wind."
"You're very cynical for a woman witnessing father-son bonding."
Artem took Mac while Gregor pulled a small notebook from his back pocket.
I stared at him. "Tell me that's not a baby log."
"It is a schedule."
"For the baby."
"For the household."
"Gregor."
He glanced at Mac, who was now waving one fist in a dramatic manner "He prefers the left side after feeding. He startles at the grandfather clock. He sleeps better when Ivan hums—"
Ivan's head snapped up. "I do not hum."
Artem looked at him.
"I don't."
"You hummed yesterday. During the nappy change."
"I was providing low-level tactical vibration. At least I don't hum Taylor Swift.” He glared at Gregor.
Gregor grinned. "You hummed the theme from that cartoon Mary was watching. What was it? Ah yes, Peppa Pig."
"Gregor."
Mac released another bubble of spit and gazed at the ceiling as if deeply moved by the conversation.
"A discerning critic," I said.
Artem settled Mac against his chest. Ivan tucked the blanket around Mac's feet. Gregor brushed a gentle finger over his cheek. None of them discussed it. They just moved around a baby in a footed sleepsuit.
Annoying, really. I'd spent years believing warmth was a trap and softness was what predators used to lure you closer. Difficult to maintain that position while watching three terrifying men debate the psychological significance of infant gas.
I looked at the nightstand. The stack of baby books I'd left scattered with notes about sleep regression and feeding schedules was now neatly arranged. And sticking out from the pages of The First Year were three neon-yellow sticky notes covered in Artem's sharp, precise handwriting.
I stared for a long moment while slick was running down my thighs and the three alphas pretended not to notice.
"I need a shower.”
An hour later, the kitchen smelled like a small electrical fire.
I walked in to find Ivan standing over the six-burner stove with a spatula and a massive smile on his face.
"Morning, malen'kaya." He flipped something that looked like a hockey puck onto a plate. "I made pancakes."
I looked at the plate, then at the pan. Then back at Ivan.
"They look sturdy."
"They're resilient." He slid the plate across the marble island. "A Petrov must start the day with a strong foundation."
I broke off a piece that looked marginally less burnt than the rest and put it in my mouth. It tasted like ash and too much vanilla and something I couldn't identify and I was too scared to ask.
"Delicious," I said.
"You hesitated."
"I was savoring the flavor."
"You were calculating whether you needed the Heimlich."
I poured myself a coffee and didn't answer.
The back door swung open with a blast of cool air. Gregor stepped in, dark tactical jacket zipped to his chin. Behind him, trotting with the self-importance of a visiting dignitary, was Fergus.
Gregor had decided my three-pound Yorkshire terrier was his professional responsibility.
Every morning at five sharp, the giant Russian and the tiny dog conducted a perimeter sweep.
Fergus no longer walked. He marched. Head high.
Chest out. The posture of a dog who knew, unequivocally, that someone would start a war for him.
At six they did the same routine but with Mac strapped to Gregor’s chest.
The Dobermans at the gatehouse had not helped. Fergus had met them on Tuesday, planted all four paws on the gravel, and produced a noise like a furious squeaky toy possessed by an ancient warlord. Both Dobermans had looked at Gregor.
Gregor had looked back.
"He is with me," Gregor told them.
The Dobermans stepped aside. One of them–Duke–had followed Fergus for a while.
Fergus had been unbearable ever since.
The slipper habit had also evolved. He no longer bothered with mine, not when Gregor had begun carrying what he called "motivational rations" in his jacket pocket.
Tiny chicken treats shaped like bones that smelled like a slaughterhouse condensed into a biscuit.
Fergus would sit in front of Gregor with his head tipped back and one paw lifted, waiting to be paid for his service.
"You're bribing my dog," I said.
"Compensating an asset."
"He weighs less than a bag of sugar."
"He’s alert."
Fergus barked once, clearly endorsing his own performance review, then trotted to his water bowl.
"The perimeter is secure," Gregor announced.
"Good work, soldiers." I took another sip of coffee. Then I picked up one of the pancakes and tapped it against the edge of the plate.
It made a sound. "Ivan."
"Yes?"
"If I throw this at the window, will it break the glass or the pancake?"
Gregor leaned closer. "Unclear."
Artem appeared in the doorway, Mac against his shoulder. He took the plate from my hand. "No one throws breakfast."
"That's not breakfast. That's evidence."
Ivan placed a hand over his heart. "You wound me."
"Not with this I don't. It's too blunt."
"They're caramelized, you heathens."
"They're burnt, you liar."
Artem kissed my temple on his way to the coffee machine. Mac made a soft sound against his shoulder, and all three of them paused for a second, before resuming their positions.
I leaned back against the counter and watched the two deadliest men in London argue about pancake taxonomy while my tiny dog supervised from his water bowl and my Bratva husband poured coffee with a baby tucked into the crook of his neck.
Three years of running. Three years of locked doors and cash under floorboards and flinching at footsteps. And now I was standing in a warm kitchen in a house full of armed men and burnt breakfast, and none of it felt like a cage.
It felt like mine.
I found my pack.