Chapter 29
Maeve
The hardest part about outrunning a nightmare isn't the running. It's figuring out what to do with your hands once you stop.
For the first few days after Finn left, I kept waiting for the collapse. I'd read about it in the pregnancy books Artem had highlighted. The emotional crash after the adrenaline receded, the postpartum hormone dip meeting the trauma aftermath in what the literature called "an omega drop.”
But the collapse didn't come.
At three months old, Mac discovered that if he produced a specific high-pitched shriek, Gregor would materialize within thirty seconds. He was testing this hypothesis with the rigor of a research scientist.
"He's playing you," I said, watching from the kitchen island as Mac let out a tiny, experimental squawk from his bouncy chair.
Gregor appeared in the doorway twelve seconds later. "He requires assistance."
"He requires entertainment. You’re a very large, very accommodating jungle gym."
Gregor scooped Mac up with the gentleness that still caught me off guard. The way those scarred hands could dismantle a weapon and then hold a baby like he was handling something sacred. Mac immediately grabbed his collar and tried to eat it.
"Manipulation," Gregor said.
"He's three months old."
"Early aptitude." He adjusted his grip. "I’m concerned."
"You look proud."
"I am proud. And concerned. Both are possible."
Mac shrieked again, delighted by the success of his experiment. Gregor's face softened by approximately one millimeter, which in Gregor expressions was the equivalent of another man weeping openly.
Fergus, not to be excluded from any hierarchy of affection, pawed at Gregor's boot until he was scooped up too.
For one absurd moment, the deadliest enforcer in the Bratva stood in my kitchen holding a baby in one arm and a Yorkshire terrier in the other, both of them staring at him with the absolute ownership of creatures who had never once been told no.
I kissed him on the cheek, then Mac on the head, and went to call Presley.
The video call connected and Presley's face filled the screen, backlit by the familiar chaos of the cottage her alphas built her in their garden. The fairy lights, a stack of books on the counter, Mr. Barney's tail flicking past the camera.
"You look different again," she said immediately.
"Hello to you too."
"You look less like you're waiting for a building to collapse on you. It's very unsettling. I preferred you when you were mildly paranoid and easy to read."
"I've been mildly paranoid for three years. I'm trying to be relaxed. It's experimental."
I told her everything. Not the edited version I'd given her before, but the real version.
All about who I was. Who Callum McCarthy was.
And why I ran from Finn O'Shea. The sale, the cage, the scar, the years of running.
The reason I'd always been so skittish at the caravan park, why I'd never let her get too close, why I'd slept with a knife under my pillow.
Presley started crying somewhere around the part where I described Finn's bite.
"Oh, don't do that," I said, my own eyes stinging. "If you cry, I'm going to cry, and I've already cried twice today because Gregor bought Fergus a sweater."
"A sweater?"
"Mustard yellow. Cable-knit. He ordered it from a website for small dogs. He said it was for tactical reasons."
“You’re doing it again.” Presley wiped her nose aggressively with a tissue. "Changing the subject. I want to know everything. I knew it was bad, Maeve, but not this bad. You should have told me."
"I couldn't tell anyone. I was too scared."
"When your brothers came looking for you—"
Fergus, sensing my distress from wherever he'd been napping, trotted into the room and immediately started barking at the iPad screen. He stood on his hind legs, front paws on the desk, and produced a series of outraged yips directed at Presley's pixelated face.
The door flew open.
Ivan appeared, a combat knife spinning casually in his hand, his eyes sweeping the room for threats. "Who made you cry?"
Fergus barked again, clearly identifying the iPad as the culprit.
"No one. I'm talking to Presley. We're having a moment."
Ivan stared at the screen, where my best friend's tear-streaked face was frozen mid-blink. Then at me. Then at Fergus, who was still growling at the iPad with the conviction of a much larger animal.
"Women are strange," he muttered, and retreated.
Presley's tears had stopped. "Was that one of them?"
"Yes."
"He had a knife. I hope he’s the chef."
"That's Ivan. You know they’re Bratva. And very protective. Also very confused by recreational crying. And–" I looked over my shoulder to check Ivan had gone. “Ivan can’t put bread in the toaster without burning it.”
“Caramelizing,” Ivan yelled from the corridor.
“Nobody caramelizes toast.”
“Then I’ve invented something.” Ivan popped his head into the camera view. “And she loves me really.”
He pressed a kiss on my cheek.
“I do. Now go.”
"He's gorgeous. Are they all gorgeous?" Presley said when the coast was clear.
"All three. It's disgusting really. I can't go anywhere without feeling like I'm in a perfume advertisement for organized crime."
"You need to bring them here," Presley said, leaning closer to the camera.
"All of you. Your pack and mine. Henry can talk business with Artem and Fritz can compare knife collections with Ivan and Etienne can just stand there being French while Gregor stares at him wondering if he is big enough to take him down. "
"That's a terrible idea."
"It's a brilliant idea."
"It's chaos waiting to happen."
"Exactly. When?"
I laughed, and it felt easy. "Soon. I promise."
Later that afternoon, Artem handed me a parcel wrapped in heavy brown paper.
I opened it on the kitchen island while Ivan made coffee while Gregor debriefed Fergus on the morning patrol.
Three books. First editions. Irish folklore. The exact titles I'd mentioned once, in passing, more than a month ago, when I'd told Artem about my grandmother and the stories she used to tell before Callum cut her off.
"This is too much," I said. My voice came out wrong, scraped and small.
"Nothing is too much." Artem's hand covered mine on the cover of the top book. "You wanted them. I found them."
Gregor kissed me on my lips after placing Fergus' security jacket on, and then the two of them left the kitchen to do the morning patrol.
Ivan slid a mug of coffee across the counter. The perfect temperature, the exact amount of milk, the way he'd learned to make it after weeks of what he called "coffee reconnaissance" and I called "drinking my coffee when I wasn't looking."
"He's right," Ivan said. "Nothing is too much. You want books, you get books. You want coffee, I make coffee. You want someone dead—"
"Ivan."
"I'm just saying. The offer stands."
A deep bark echoed from outside, followed by Fergus's smaller, sharper yip.
"He's terrorizing the Dobermans again," I said.
"We need five more," Ivan said. "I think the guards are frightened of him now. Yesterday one of them saluted."
Gregor appeared at the back door with Fergus trotting ahead of him. I looked up and burst out laughing so hard I had to put the book down.
Fergus strutted into the kitchen like a king inspecting his domain. Behind him, one of the estate Dobermans paused at the threshold. All eighty pounds of sleek black muscle and military training, and looked at me with exasperation.
Fergus turned and gave one sharp yip.
The Doberman sat.
I stared. "Did he just give an order?"
Gregor removed a tiny treat from his pocket and handed it to Fergus. "Clear command structure."
"You've created a monster."
"He was already a monster. I have created discipline."
"Gregor." I wiped my eyes. "Are you getting his sweaters specially made?"
“Yeah.” A pause like I was saying something wild. "I have a contact on the internet. There’s a website specializing in outerwear for small breeds. They have a very efficient shipping process."
"You're browsing dog clothing websites."
"The search history is encrypted and I do it in incognito mode."
“You’re hiding your history.”
“I don't want Fergus becoming a kidnap victim.”
Ivan was leaning against the counter, wheezing. Artem had put his book down and was watching the exchange with a stillness that meant he was filing it away for future mockery.
"I love you," I said to Gregor. "I love you and your encrypted dog sweater purchases and your clear command structure and the fact that you've apparently promoted Fergus to some kind of tactical role."
Gregor looked at me. Then at the Doberman, who was still sitting on the threshold looking deeply conflicted about his life choices. Then at Fergus, who was now lying on his back with his sweater riding up, demanding belly rubs.
Gregor said. "The sweater was a necessary investment for our pack dog."
"Of course it was."
That night, after the house had gone quiet and Mac had been put down in the nursery, I paused outside the door because I was nosy and because no woman with functioning ears passed up the opportunity to eavesdrop on three alphas who thought they were alone with a baby.
Artem was in the rocking chair with Mac against his chest, one hand covering almost the whole of our son's back. He was murmuring in Russian. Not singing, exactly, but something rhythmic and low that made the lamps flicker.
Ivan was on the rug with Fergus asleep on his stomach, providing improvised English lyrics.
"—and the little wolf said, I will guard the perimeter, and the big wolf said, the perimeter is already guarded, and the little wolf said—"
"That is not how the song goes," Artem said without opening his eyes.
"The song lacked narrative urgency."
"The baby is not seeking narrative urgency."
"How do you know? He has excellent taste. He's been staring at me for five minutes."
"He's staring at the ceiling fan."
"It's a very nice fan."
Gregor stood by the window, arms folded, pretending to monitor the grounds. He was humming under his breath.
Ivan pointed without looking. "He's humming again."
"I am not."
Mac made a tiny, contented sound.
Gregor's mouth softened by that barely visible degree. "He finds the frequency stabilizing."
"You mean he likes it," I said from the doorway.
Three heads turned. For men trained in stealth, they all looked wonderfully caught.
"I was told to have a bath and relax," I said. "I didn't realize relaxation came with a private concert and tactical analysis."
Ivan grinned. "You’re very welcome."
Artem looked down at Mac, whose eyes had closed. "He was restless."
"And now?"
"Now he is settled."
The quiet pride in his voice made my throat tighten. I kissed each of them and went to actually take the bath I'd been promised.
An hour later, I was in the nest with my laptop, surrounded by cushions and blankets and the lingering scent of my pack.
I opened a blank page.
For years, every decision I'd made had been about survival. Where to sleep. How to eat. Which name to use. Which exit to memorize. There hadn't been room for anything else. I had no hobbies, no ambitions, no version of myself that existed beyond the next bus ticket and the next locked door.
But somewhere in the past few weeks, I'd started composing sentences in my head again.
Walking Fergus around the gardens, I'd catch myself shaping dialogue.
Folding Mac's tiny sleepsuits, I'd think about opening sentences.
The old instinct was still there, buried under three years of fear.
It hadn't died. It had just been waiting.
I typed my name at the top of the page.
Maeve Petrov.
Not Porter. Porter was the woman who ran. Not O'Shea. O'Shea was the woman who'd been sold. Not McCarthy because that belonged to a man who'd put a gravestone in Dublin with my name on it rather than admit I'd escaped.
Petrov.
I'd earned it. I'd stood in a chapel in Las Vegas and said yes to a man who'd refused to use me as a pawn. I'd faced my father in a sitting room and told him I wasn't currency. I'd watched Finn O'Shea crawl on his knees and realized I didn't care enough to want him dead.
The name was mine because I'd chosen it.
I typed the first sentence.
I refuse to let the trauma of my past poison my future.
Then I kept typing.
The words came faster than I expected. The years of silence hadn't emptied me out, they'd been filling a reservoir I hadn't known was there.
Stories my grandmother told. Places I'd seen from bus windows while running between cities.
The way rain smelled in Edinburgh versus Surrey.
The exact shade of caramel in Artem's scent.
The weight of Mac's fist around my finger.
The sound of Gregor humming when he thought no one was listening.
I wrote until my wrists ached and my eyes blurred and the house had gone completely silent around me. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed an hour I didn't bother to count.
When I finally closed the laptop, the sky outside the window had changed from black to gray.
Fergus lifted his head from his bed in the corner, yawned, and went back to sleep.
I slid under the covers between Artem and Ivan, and Gregor's hand found my ankle in the dark.
"What were you writing?" Artem murmured.
"A book."
"About what?"
"Me. Us. Everything."
He pulled me closer. "Good."
"That's it? Good?"
"That's it."
"Emotionally constipated Russian," I said into his chest.
"Your emotionally constipated Russian."
I smiled in the dark. The laptop was on the nightstand with forty pages that hadn't existed yesterday, and the men with me smelled like champagne and home, and somewhere down the hall our son was asleep.
It wasn't the life I'd planned. It was better.