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I can’t let Zoya suffer the same fate. I may not know what a happy, loving mother looks like, but I know how to stop abuse.

After crying for the scared little girl trapped in my soul, the lost child who never got the knight in shining armor she dreamed of, I lift my head and meet my husband’s icy-blue eyes.

I may have never had a white knight, but I had a savior. My angel of death saved me from foes an uptight warrior never could have survived.

“Thank you, mio marito ,” I whisper.

He trails his fingertips over my cheek before wrapping his arms around Zoya and me.

“No, thank you, so?lnyshka ,” he says in a low, smooth voice. “You do not belong on the floor. Hold her tight. I will lift you both.”

I stiffen. Shock flows through me as I register how much our bodies touch. This much physical contact would’ve sent me into a panic attack in any other situation, but with Zoya silently begging for comfort, my nightmares seem a million lightyears away.

I gather Zoya more firmly against me and breathe through the agony blasting through my body as Dimitri lifts me to my feet and carefully guides me into the bedroom. Every step sends stabbing pains through my knees and ankles, but I shake my head and lift my chin toward the door.

“Zoya will sleep in our room. She can’t stay in here,” I demand.

With a single nod, Dimitri accepts my declaration and points my toes toward the hall.

My joints refuse to ease into an even stride despite the trek across the house, so I grimace even with Dimitri’s help as I sit on the edge of our bed.

“Is she hurt?” he asks.

Zoya sniffles and twists her hand in my shirt.

“She might need some ice for her arm. Zoya, honey, can you show your father where she hurt you?”

My chest aches as she presses her head harder against me. I gently pry her fingers off my shirt and lift her sleeve while keeping my other arm tight around her. Her knuckles and elbow dig into my stomach, but I don’t care.

A bruise forms on her upper arm.

“I should’ve stabbed her,” I hiss.

His dark chuckle sends terror down my spine.

“Yes, you should have. I would rather dispose of a body than see marks on my child.”

The proclamation shouldn’t melt my insides or fill me with vicious glee, but it does. I’ve never felt so understood or in sync with anyone in my life.

And by the hard glint in his eyes, he will be burying a body very, very soon.

“I will get ice for her. What do you need, so?lnyshka ?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.”

“Do not lie to me, moya zhena . You hurt. How do I fix?”

I swallow the thickness in my throat and ask for ibuprofen and ice. He rewards me with a chaste kiss to my temple before heading into the hall.

He returns carrying a tray overflowing with ice packs, bandage wraps, washcloths, drinks, and snacks.

Without a word, we wrap an icepack loosely around Zoya’s arm and coax her onto the bed with a sugary drink and salty snack. She sits leaned against my side with her chips in my lap. Every time her tiny hand disappears into the bag, my heart swells, and I worry it might burst.

Dimitri kneels in front of me and inspects my swollen arm.

I bite back a gasp when he presses a kiss to my red palm.

With a scowl on his face, he wraps an ice pack around my arm, secures it with the bandage wrap, and settles my hand onto my thigh before he twists open a bottle of water and offers me a few tablets of ibuprofen pinched between his two fingers.

I open my mouth. He drops the pills onto my tongue and tilts the water to my lips.

I sit in surreal awe as my newfound daughter snuggles against me and my husband continues caring for me. Even though the injuries happened a year ago, relief slowly seeps into my joints as he wraps icepacks around my knees and ankles.

Two small bodies appear in the doorway.

Maksim rushes in for the snacks while Artur glowers at me from the hall until he sees the ice pack on Zoya’s arm, then he rushes into the room and stands on the far side of Maksim with his eyes roaming over his sister.

Emotionally spent and physically exhausted, I can’t muster up the strength for another battle, so I shift my gaze to Maksim and Zoya, watching in awe as Maksim unwittingly pulls Zoya out of her trauma.

“Why does Zoya have that on her arm?” Artur asks.

Maksim freezes mid chew. His eyes widen as he looks beyond the snacks for the first time.

“Why are you putting them on Mama Cams, too? Are they hurt? What is wrong?” he asks.

My heart leaps at Maksim’s nickname for me. I love the recognition and never in a million years thought Dimitri’s children would accept me so quickly.

“They will be sore tomorrow, but they are fine, moy syn ,” Dimitri says as he slips off my shoe and sets it near the foot of the bed.

I bite back a sound of pain because, even though he removed my sneaker with skilled and gentle hands, agony spears through my ankle.

“What happened?” Artur demands.

He’s so much like his father my chest aches.

“Nanny Olga spanked your sister. Your mother took care of it,” Dimitri responds.

I cringe. Artur isn’t ready to call me his mama. He may never be. Dimitri trying to force it on him will only make it worse.

Maksim looks at Zoya, starts crying, and chokes on his chips. I snatch a juice box off the tray and push it to him. He takes several gulps before throwing his arms around his sister, spilling his chips and juice everywhere and sobbing his apologies for the horrors she endured.

“How did she take care of it ?” Artur asks.

His unimpressed once-over mocks me, and my mind pulls up a snapshot of Nanny Olga’s insulting stare.

“She slapped her. Twice. I am surprised you did not hear it, moy syn ,” Dimitri says in a voice so cold chills race down my spine.

Artur stiffens.

“Why does she need ice?” he challenges.

“I was in a car accident a year ago and some things didn’t heal well,” I say.

Maksim surprises me by transferring his hug from his sister to me. Tears clog my throat, but I pat his back and pull Zoya tighter against my side.

“When will we get a new nanny?” Artur asks so quickly my mind struggles to keep up with his jump in topics.

“We may not,” Dimitri replies.

Artur’s face turns red with anger.

“We must!” he demands.

My husband—renowned Russian assassin—quirks his brow at his son in challenge, demanding he explain his outburst with a single chilling look.

“We met her —” he jabs his finger toward me—“less than two hours ago, but she has already infected my brother and sister. They cannot fall in love with her just so she can ditch us when she has her own children,” he sneers.

I silently curse the attention Dimitri gives me even though I relish every second. If he wasn’t this touchy-feely with his first wife, then it’s no wonder his son assumes we’ll have children.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Artur. I’ll never give you another sibling.”

When he deepens his scowl, I sigh and lean back just enough to shift Maksim aside, lift my shirt, and reveal the scars on my stomach. My fingers tremble from the cacophony of emotions barreling through me.

“I cannot physically have children. I don’t have the right parts for it anymore,” I say.

His eyes round as he studies the different types of scars on my torso.

After a moment, the color drains from his face and horror shines from his eyes. Regret follows, and panic thrums in my chest. I can’t let him go down the road of self-disgust.

“I was very sad when it happened, but I’m okay now. I have you, Maksim, Zoya, and your father in my family now. That’s more than I ever thought I could ask for.”

“Even when we are mean?” he asks in a small voice.

The hope lurking behind his skepticism threatens to crack my heart in two. I nod.

“Yes, even when you’re mean.”

I stop talking before sobs break free of my chest.

Artur wraps his arms around his midsection and blinks at nothing a few times before meeting my eyes.

“I am sorry, Madam Camilla,” he says before fleeing the room.

My heart aches.

So does every inch of my body, but I’d rather cut out my own liver than end my time with Maksim and Zoya in my arms.

Dimitri’s bright blue eyes glint as he catches my longing glance at the pillows. Maybe we should all cuddle up and take a nap together.

A phone buzzes with an urgent staccato. Dimitri pulls his cell out of his pocket.

The shift in his expression may be subtle, but I understand it all the same. He doesn’t like whatever news he just received. Something is wrong.

Dread knots my stomach.