Page 84 of Obsessive Vows

Her unexpected laughter—warm and genuine despite the tension of impending reunion—breaks through my focused anxiety. The sound penetrates defenses maintained through years of disciplined vengeance, creating warmth I'm unprepared to process.

"Sofia doesn't need another security specialist. She has enough of those between us." She approaches, close enough that I feel the heat of her body, the subtle disruption of air between us. Her hand rises, hesitates, then settles against my forearm with deliberate intent. "She needs her father. The man, not the operative."

The contact burns through the fabric of my shirt, skin warming beneath her touch in way that tactical training provides no defense against. Before I can respond to this unexpected vulnerability between us, Anton returns with the updated security feed.

"Transport approaching final checkpoint. Authentication protocols verified at all transition points. Decoy operations successfully diverted attention from primary movement."

The carefully orchestrated extraction sequence—four days of meticulous preparation, multiple transport vectors, redundant security measures, coordinated distraction operations—approaching final implementation. Sofia Viktorovna Baranova, coming home to a father who didn't know she existed one week ago.

"I'll monitor the approach perimeter." Anton's tactical withdrawal provides illusion of privacy while maintaining readiness. His expression as he leaves reveals more than professional assessment—concern for emotional stability rarely compromised throughout our years of partnership.

"She looks like you when she's concentrating." Anastasia breaks the silence, unexpected personal observation amid professional preparation. Her hand still rests against my arm, thumb tracing small circles against the fabric in unconscious gesture that sends heat spiraling through my body despite the circumstances. "That same intensity. That same focus. She'll stare at something new until she's processed every detail, categorized every element. Four months old and already analyzing her environment like a strategist."

The information—personal rather than logical—penetrates deeper than anything else could have in this moment. Creating a connection beyond planning to secure the child herself.

"Tell me more." The request emerges with uncharacteristic uncertainty, voice rougher than intended despite efforts at controlled response. "Not milestones she’s achieved in her development or medical assessments. Tell me about Sofia."

Anastasia's expression transforms, maternal affection breaking through the Bratva princess exterior she presents to the world. The shift is breathtaking—dark eyes softening, tension melting from her shoulders, lips curving into genuine smile rarely witnessed within her father's organization.

"She's serious in the mornings, observing everything with those silver eyes that miss nothing. By afternoon, she's discovered something new that makes her laugh—the sound like small bells, unexpected and perfect." Her hand moves unconsciously to the locket containing Sofia's hair, fingers curling around it as if physically connecting to her daughter across distance. "She sleeps with her fists closed, like she's holding onto dreams too precious to release. She has this one particular look when something doesn't meet her expectations—eyebrows drawn together, mouth set in a determined line that warns of imminent rebellion."

Each detail creates an image more concrete than surveillance photos or medical records. A personality emerging. A daughter. My daughter.

"Transport arriving at entry point Alpha." Anton's voice through secured communications system snaps professional focus back into place. "Authentication procedures initiated. Primary asset confirmed with visual verification."

Primary asset. The clinical designation feels suddenly inadequate, almost offensive when applied to the child Anastasia has described—the daughter with my eyes and her mother's determination who deserves name and identity beyond operational terminology.

"I need to meet Anna first." Anastasia shifts immediately back to protection mode, maternal instinct guiding decisions. Her hand slips from my arm, leaving cold emptiness where warmth had briefly existed. "Verify secure transport completion. Establish comfort before introducing new variables to Sofia's environment."

"Agreed." Despite desperate need to see my daughter, tactical assessment confirms logical progression. The child's emotional stability takes priority over paternal impatience. "Use primary receiving area. Full security maintained with passive monitoring only. Privacy protocols engaged once authentication complete."

She nods, already moving toward the designated location with swiftness. The daughter of Mikhail Markov, raised with security awareness embedded alongside other childhood lessons.

I remain in the converted study, hand unconsciously checking weapon while mind reprocesses preparation completed over four days of focused activity. Crib assembled to exact specifications despite never having constructed such equipment before. Monitoring systems tested with redundant verification. Medical supplies arranged for accessibility while maintaining safety protocols. Soft blankets—yellow rather than traditional blue or pink—arranged on recommendation from Anastasia who knows our daughter's preferences.

Our daughter.

The phrase still creates cognitive disruption despite days of adjustment. The extraction operation provided a framework for processing a revelation that shattered mission focus maintained throughout years of planned vengeance. Action rather than emotional processing. Implementation rather than psychological adjustment.

Now, with Sofia minutes away, the full impact crashes through professional detachment with seismic force.

I have a daughter. Four months old. Silver eyes and dark hair. Created from our fleeting connection in Paris that tore down all my walls. Hidden for her protection, now arriving at my home prepared specifically for her safety.

My hands run along the crib railing, automatically noting the quality of its construction, absence of potential hazards, appropriate height for defense against external threats while permitting parental access. But beneath my professional evaluation, something else emerges—wonder at its miniature scale, at yellow blankets softer than anything in my spartan existence, at the small stuffed bear Anastasia insisted was necessary.

"Viktor." Anastasia's voice through the communication system interrupts my thoughts. Something in her tone—a warmth, a vulnerability—makes my heart stutter against my ribs. "We're ready."

The walk to the receiving area seems longer than building schematics indicate, each step measured against my accelerating heartbeat that combat breathing techniques fail to regulate. The door slides open with electronic speed, revealing the moment training cannot prepare for despite extensive preparation.

Anastasia stands with another woman—Anna, the caretaker, assessing me with protective wariness appropriate for someone guarding precious cargo. But my attention fixes immediately beyond them, to the small carrier where dark hair appears above a yellow blanket.

Sofia.

The world narrows to single focus point, everything beyond my daughter's presence fading to peripheral awareness managed through trained instinct rather than conscious attention. I move forward with deliberate control that barely contains my desperate need to see her fully, to confirm reality beyond surveillance images or described traits.

"She's just woken from a travel nap," Anna reports with protective watchfulness. "She’s typically alert after she sleeps."

The brief description would typically satisfy a parent accustomed to spending most of their day with their child. Now it feels wholly inadequate for the moment unfolding as I approach the carrier with uncharacteristic caution.

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