Page 82 of Bratva Bidder

She hops down and runs over, arms wide, and I catch her easily, holding her tight, burying my face in her soft hair.

“Hi, baby,” I murmur, trying not to let the emotion catch in my throat. “Did you sleep well?”

She nods eagerly. “I had a dream I was flying. And the big man made pancakes!”

I glance up, and sure enough, one of the kitchen staff gives me a sheepish wave.

I laugh, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Lucky girl.”

We sit together at the table. She chatters away about the estate, the dogs, the pancakes, how she wants to swim even though she doesn’t know how. I listen, smiling when I can, nodding, making her giggle when I steal a piece of toast from her plate.

For a few moments, it’s easy to pretend this is what life has always looked like.

Mila plucks a strawberry from her plate and pops it into her mouth, swinging her little legs under the chair like she’s forgotten every hospital visit, every needle, every whisper of worry. It’s like the weight of the last few days hasn’t touched her.

“I feel like a princess,” she says suddenly, voice full of wonder as she glances around the sun-drenched kitchen. “Like I live in a castle.”

I blink, caught off guard. She says it so earnestly, with her juice-stained lips and tousled curls, like this place—the marblefloors, the enormous windows, the chandelier hanging above the breakfast nook—is a fairy tale made real.

I laugh softly. “Oh yeah?”

She nods solemnly, grabbing another piece of toast. “It’s big, and shiny, and there are guards outside. And the hallways echo. Like in the movies. It’s like a castle, Mommy.”

My throat tightens, and I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t need a castle to be a princess.”

“I know,” she says, chewing. “But I like it here.”

The admission pierces something inside me. BecauseIdon’t like it here. I’ve been bracing myself since the moment we walked in—waiting for danger, for power plays, for the shadows of this world to reach out and snatch her back. But Mila…she’s already making herself at home.

“Do you think we’ll stay here forever?” she asks, eyes wide and expectant.

I smile through the sudden ache in my chest. “No, sweetheart. Not forever.”

She pouts. “Why not?”

Because the world isn’t safe just because the curtains are velvet. Because this house may look like a dream, but it was built by blood. Because the man whose arms she fell asleep in last night is both her father—and a man I’ve spent six years trying to forget.

I lean in and kiss her temple. “Because forever’s a long time. And we still have so many places left to see.”

She hums, accepting that answer with the easy faith only children have.

But as she picks up another strawberry and starts humming to herself, questions hang in the air like dust in the sunlight.

What if he wants her to stay?

What if she wants to stay too?

18

KONSTANTIN

The room smellslike antiseptic and old plastic. Machines hum softly around me—calm, precise, indifferent. I sit in the chair beside Nikolai’s bed and watch his tiny chest rise and fall under the soft hospital blanket. His small hands rest above it, palms curled, unmoving.

I’ve faced war zones with steadier hands than I have right now.

Mila was easy. She came to me with wide eyes and open arms, her trust wrapped in innocence and no memory of abandonment. She justwas. Mine. Like it had always been.

But Nikolai?