Page 44 of Obsessive Vows

"State-of-the-art pediatric monitoring systems. Dr. Beaumont has arranged weekly telemedicine consultations, with emergency protocols established for in-person visits if needed." Anna's expression softens slightly. "Sofia will want for nothing, Anastasia. Except perhaps her mother."

The simple truth lances through my practiced composure. In two days, I return to Moscow, to the Markov compound, to the role of obedient daughter and Bratva princess. Leaving behind the most precious thing I've ever created.

As if sensing my distress, Sofia stirs in her bassinet, tiny fists waving against the fine Swiss cotton sheets. I move to her immediately, lifting her with the practiced ease I've developed over these past weeks. Her weight settles against my chest, so small yet somehow containing the entire universe.

"She has your eyes," Anna observes quietly. "But her father's coloring."

I study my daughter's face—the perfect bow of her mouth, the delicate arch of eyebrows, the startling silver-gray eyes that mirror Viktor's with unsettling similarity. At eight weeks, she already shows signs of both of us—my stubborn determination in the set of her tiny jaw, his intense focus when she studies the world around her.

The memory of Paris rises unbidden—not the practiced recollection I've allowed myself during pregnancy, but the full, sensory experience I've kept carefully locked away.

Viktor's hands—strong yet unexpectedly gentle—tracing the curve of my spine in the darkness of the hotel suite. The scent of his skin, clean with hints of sandalwood and something uniquely his own. His breath warm against my neck as he whispered my name—not "Miss Markov" or "Mikhail's daughter," but "Anastasia" spoken like a revelation.

The weight of him above me, solid and real in ways the interactions of my Bratva world never were. The intensity in those silver-gray eyes—now mirrored in our daughter's—as if memorizing every detail of my face.

My body responding to his touch with an honesty I'd never permitted myself, defenses falling away beneath his hands, his mouth, his body moving against mine. Not the immature physical experience of previous encounters with young men still figuring out life, but something elemental that seemed to reach beyond flesh into some deeper part of myself I hadn't known existed.

"Anastasia," he'd whispered against my lips as we moved together, my name becoming a different word entirely in his mouth. "YA viju tebya." I see you.

And for that night, I believed he truly did.

"Let's hope she inherited only his better qualities," I murmur, stroking the dark wisps of hair that have begun to cover Sofia's previously bald head, forcing myself back to the present. The memory of Viktor is dangerous—not just for the protocols it threatens, but for the emotions it unlocks.

Anna retreats discreetly, leaving us alone in the nursery designed to provide both security and warmth. Unlike the cold minimalism of my childhood rooms in the Markov mansion, Sofia's space combines practical protection with gentle aesthetics—soft lights, soothing colors, careful attention to the environmental details that shape early development.

"I have to go away for a while, malenkaya," I whisper in Russian, the language of lullabies and secrets. "But I'll come back. Always. No matter what happens."

Sofia gazes up at me with those silver eyes that pierce straight through practiced defenses. Two months old, yet somehow, she seems to understand the gravity of promises made. She reaches up with perfect infant fingers, grasping a strand of my hair with surprising strength.

"Already asserting ownership," I say with a small smile. "Definitely your father's daughter."

The satellite phone rings from the secure office adjacent to the nursery. Only three people have this number—Lena, Dr. Beaumont, and my private investigator in Moscow. I settle Sofia against my shoulder, moving quickly to answer.

"Yes?"

"Surveillance on your apartment was initiated yesterday." Lena's voice, tense with controlled urgency. "Two of your father's men, not the usual security team. They've accessed your building twice during unoccupied hours."

My pulse quickens, but my voice remains steady. "Expected behavior pre-return. Verification of security parameters, standard protocol."

"Perhaps." Lena doesn't sound convinced. "But Yuri Kovalev was seen entering the building this morning. He doesn't handle standard security."

Yuri Kovalev—my father's problem-solver for sensitive family matters. The man who quietly removed my mother's personal effects after her "accident." Who handles situations requiring both discretion and finality.

"Understood. Implementing Protocol Three." The pre-arranged response signals Lena to activate additional countermeasures in my Moscow apartment—subtle evidence reinforcing my study abroad story, removing any potential inconsistencies.

"Be careful, Nastya." Rare emotion bleeds through Lena's usually pragmatic tone. "Your father has been... different lately. More paranoid. More controlling."

"I'll see you in three days," I reply, ending the call before emotion can compromise my discipline.

Sofia fusses against my shoulder, sensing my tension despite my efforts to maintain calm. I rock her gently, moving to the window where the Swiss Alps rise majestically against the clear spring sky. So different from Moscow's urban sprawl, from the Markov compound's militaristic minimalism.

A movement at the tree line catches my attention—a flash of color where there should be none. I freeze, maternal instincts instantly heightening to predatory awareness. The security system hasn't triggered, which means either sophisticated circumvention or a non-threatening presence.

"Anna," I call quietly, maternal tone masking red alert. "Would you bring Sofia's new blanket? I think she's getting chilly."

Our coded warning. Anna appears instantly, taking Sofia while I move to the security panel disguised as a thermostat control.

"Local police vehicle on the access road," she murmurs, positioning herself away from windows. "Two officers, approaching on foot."

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