Page 96 of Ruthless Serenade

For the first time in seven years, I feel the ice in my veins thaw. Life floods back into places I thought were dead forever. This second chance - one I sure as hell don’t deserve - feels like redemption.

I’m the father of the best little girl in the world.

And God help anyone who tries to change that.

Chapter Forty-Five

Maron

I push the door to the guest room open.

Sharon’s still cradled against my chest, her tiny frame feeling more fragile than spun glass. Those small fingers are locked around my neck with a strength born of terror. The weight of her, the soft scent of her hair – it’s dragging up ghosts I’ve spent years trying to bury. Cordelia. The daughter I lost. The memory slams into me, stealing my breath.

When I try to lay Sharon on the bed, she clings tighter, her body going rigid. I don’t fight it. Instead, I settle on the edge, letting her curl into me like she’s trying to disappear into my chest.

"You’re safe now, Sharon. I got you," I murmur, the words feeling pathetically weak against the magnitude of what she’s been through.

Her eyes are wide open but it’s as if they’re seeing something else, something that makes my trigger finger itch. I brush her hair back, my hands feeling too harsh against her delicate skin that’s never known violence before today.

"It’s over," I tell her, fighting to keep the rage and worry from my voice. "No one’s going to hurt you again. I swear it."

Silence stretches between us, broken only by her shallow breathing. The vice around my chest tightens, but I keep talking, words spilling out like blood from a wound. It’s all I can do.

"You did good, kid. Tough as nails, just like your mom. She’s gonna be over the moon to see you."

I ramble on, each promise feeling more desperate than the last. But Sharon’s still locked away somewhere I can’t follow. I hold her closer, as if my strength alone could shield her from whatever nightmare she’s reliving. If I could rip her fear away and take it into myself, I’d do it without hesitation. But I’m powerless here, reduced to nothing but a shield of flesh and bone around her small body.

With my free hand, I pull out my phone and dial my doctor to come and see her. Then, I send Mindy a text.

"She’s here. In the guestroom. She’s okay, but won’t speak."

I stare at the screen, willing those three dots to appear. Nothing but darkness stares back. Has she lost her phone? She should be tearing the world apart for news of her daughter. Our daughter.

Our family physician, Dr. Gary McCoy arrives in less than two minutes, efficient as always. I explain the situation in clipped sentences, my eyes drawn back to Sharon’s curled form on the bed. Something raw claws at my chest. It’s more than just rediscovering fatherhood – it’s about her, about Mindy, about this chance at a family I didn’t know I was starving for until it was almost ripped away.

I watch the doctor’s face like a hawk as he examines her. While he checks vitals and scribbles his notes, ice crystallizes inmy veins. Rachel fucking Anderson. That bitch. My mind plays out scenarios of retribution, each more violent than the last. I can almost taste her terror, hear her begging for mercy as I make her pay for every second my daughter spent in fear.

"Let’s step outside," Dr. McCoy suggests, casting a final glance at Sharon. She’s motionless on the bed now, eyes sealed shut. I can’t tell if it’s sleep or if she’s barricaded herself behind those delicate eyelids, hiding from a world that’s shown her its dark side.

Rachel will pay.

"Post-traumatic stress," the doctor explains in the hallway, his voice low and clinical. "Her nervous system is protecting itself by shutting down."

"She has selective mutism," I growl.

"Ah." Understanding crosses his face. "That makes more sense. Trauma can force the speech centers into complete shutdown, especially in cases like hers."

"Will she be okay?" The question comes out like gravel.

He nods. "With time and proper care, yes. But she’ll need therapy."

I release a breath that feels like broken glass. "Thank you, doc."

His hand lands on my shoulder. "Relax, Mr. Korolev. Right now, she just needs rest. And her mother by her side."

As if summoned by his words, I hear the sound of frantic footsteps echoing down the hallway. Mindy appears, her face a roadmap of tear tracks and terror, chest heaving with panickedbreaths. She barely acknowledges the doctor, her wild eyes locking onto mine.

"Where is she?" The words tear from her throat like shrapnel.

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