Misha
“Moya sila.”
Without a second thought, I’m across the room and in Mila’s arms. If anyone, anyone, can talk me down from the ledge I’ve been teetering on, it’s her.
“We will get her back. They’ll all pay. You just have to be strong for a little while longer. I know you remember what you told me so many years ago.”
We’re in life together…
I did tell her that, and I meant it then just as I know it’s true today.
With a sniffle, I rise, and she gestures to the living room of her hotel suite before moving to a sideboard where a teapot cheerfully whistles.
Taking the order for what it is, I plop heavily onto the couch and rest my head in my hands, searching for the clarity that’s eluded me since the moment one piece of paper changed the trajectory of my life forever.
Regardless of what happens here in Canada, I’ll never feel peace again unless Abby’s within my sight.
Or better yet, in my arms. Mila nudges my knee, and the steaming cup of tea she presents me with soothes me, if only for the ritual.
This, tea with her, plotting and scheming the death and destruction of our enemies, is a known safe space.
She’s made lemon balm, reserved for our most important discussions, and it’s never failed to help center us both when we needed it most.
“Spasibo, moya tsaritsa.”
We sip in silence, not quite comforting but less tense than the pressure cooker of a flight that seemed more intense with each mile closer to Canada.
The white noise that’s only grown louder with Abby’s absence is somewhat blunted by Mila’s presence, though, and I’m thankful for that.
Thatcher’s with Teddy and the Santori brothers, sensing that as much as I love having him around, for now, his energy is put to better use elsewhere.
He only ever wants to help, and with our plan becoming more solidified every moment, I think he’ll have his chance.
“When we all get back to the States,” she says lowly, regarding me over the top of her teacup with a chastising gaze that would make me laugh if they weren’t so dire. “You will be going to therapy. This anxiety will put you into an early grave.”
“I’m not anxious—”
“Cortisol response, hyper-inflammatory state, arterial damage—”
“I’m fucking terrified! How can it be anxiety when the thing I feared most already happened!”
She pauses before finishing her tidy little list of ailments that she believes are in my future.
“Coronary artery disease,” she says with a sigh. “This happened due to circumstances that none of us were aware of, but it won’t be replicable. From now on, she’ll be fully ensconced in the family, and we’re wiping the man who’s to blame for all of this off the face of the earth.”
I know she’s right. I do. But nothing’s been able to stop the roiling guilt in my stomach that my Abby is back in the hands of a man like Conor Fitzpatrick.
We’ve helped thousands of women over the years, but somehow, knowing it’s my love suffering has allowed my imagination to run wild with the worst-case scenarios.
Nothing will be able to stop this spiral.
Maybe waiting for everything to be perfectly planned isn’t necessary. I can take a skeleton crew and get in, get Abby, and get out. The rest of the team can come behind me and…whoa.
“Ah, ah, ah. Sit. You have a few more minutes, then I’ll carry you to the bed.”
My empty teacup has slipped from my hands, bouncing once on the plush rug underneath my feet but not breaking. Mila is distorted in my vision, like she’s underwater, and I realize with a groan what she’s done.
“You didn’t have to fucking drug me.”
“Yes, I fucking did. If you sass me, I’ll let you sleep on the couch, and you can arrive to rescue your princess tomorrow with a crick in your neck.”
“I would have slept—”
“No, moya sila, you wouldn’t have. You’ve done this to me a few times, too, lest you forget.”
“Only when you—”
“Needed it? Hmm. Well, consider this me deciding that you needed it, I suppose. You’ll be more useful to everyone, including Abby, rested and ready for war.”
I want to argue, and I try, but I’m already fading, and my well-thought-out rebuke comes out as a high-pitched whine instead.
“I know. You can get me back later. For now, rest, Misha. Dream of her. She’ll be back before you know it.”
As if I’m unable to defy her, even in my dreams, I do as she says and think of nothing but Abby. I know I’m asleep and that this isn’t real, but I’m so warm and comfortable that any concern feels miles away.
What was I worried about, again? Look how lovely life is.
The pumpkin patch is bustling with families, parents enjoying crisp spiked cider and kids clamoring to find the best pumpkin.
It’s cooler today, and the leaves have finally turned fully, a spectacle of burgundy, amber, and marigold as far as the eye can see.
My own pumpkin is waddling back to me from the restroom, her third visit in the thirty minutes we’ve been here.
Abby’s past her due date, but she insisted on coming to enjoy “one last outing just the two of us.” That’s also what she said last week when we went to an apple orchard, and the week before, when we went to a drive-in movie marathon, and she peed herself while laughing at the “scary” movies.
“Hi. Ready to find a pumpkin cream donut for me and then take me home?”
The donut stall was within eyesight of the bathroom, and she almost swoons as I brandish my haul, clearly bursting with treats. I hadn’t expected her to make it an hour, and once she has a couple donuts and settles in for the ride home, I doubt we’ll go far before she’s asleep.
“You’re my hero,” she sighs, leaning heavily into my side as we walk back to the car.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to carry you, lesnaya? Even with all three of you, you’re still not a workout for me. Maybe we try for three next time—”
“Misha Mavrin, I swear to god, if you ever insinuate again that I’ll carry three babies at once, I’ll…oh. Oh, I might have to go back to the bathroom…”
As she trails off, glancing down to see fluid wetting the dirt path to the parking lot, her eyes widen before snapping to mine. She knows, just like I do, that the bathroom isn’t what she needs right now.
I awake with a start, calm clarity rolling over me in a way that neither Mila’s tea nor her reassurances could.
The clock on the nightstand blinks 5:00 a.m. Later than I’d usually sleep without Abby in my arms, but still earlier than Thatcher and Mila, who are curled up, the former the small spoon in a tight embrace.
Moving to the bathroom to shower and ready myself for the day, I realize as I examine myself in the mirror that she was right.
What I needed was a good night’s sleep. I’m fresh, sharp, and ready to kill. The vivid dreams of the future I will have with my girl were the cherry on top, and a perfect reminder of what I’m fighting for. My lesnaya. My Abby. My everything.