Page 80 of Obsessive Vows

Truth that now collides catastrophically with the unexpected reality of a daughter whose existence transcends the vengeance of my mission.

"I would never harm her." The promise emerges with bone-deep certainty that transcends everything else. "Never use her existence as leverage regardless of circumstances between us or our respective motives."

Anastasia studies me with unnerving intensity, searching for deception beneath passionate declaration. "Even if she represents a strategic advantage in whatever mission drives your infiltration of my father's organization?"

The question cuts too close to dangerous truth I cannot fully reveal. Yet something beyond assessment drives my response.

"She transcends even my life’s mission." The admission creates vulnerability beyond any I've permitted throughout infiltration of Markov's empire. "Beyond our arranged engagement or organizational allegiance or alliances."

Something shifts in Anastasia's expression—not full trust, not yet.

"I'll need time." I can see the professional calculation returning to her eyes despite the emotional complexity between us. "Security protocols require significant adjustment for direct contact. Verification procedures…” Her voice trails off. It’s not that kind of time she needs. It’s the emotional kind. Bringing me into my daughter’s life means keeping me there. Surely, she knows I will never walk away from my child.

I nod, understanding overriding my emotional impulse toward immediate demand. The safety procedures protecting our daughter are vast.

My gaze returns to the tablet still displaying Sofia's image. The silver eyes that establish genetic connection beyond any doubt. The features still forming yet already showing the combination of contributors that no intelligence training can prepare me to process emotionally.

"Were you ever going to tell me I had a daughter if circumstances—if I—had not forced your hand?"

22

ANASTASIA

"Were you ever going to tell me I had a daughter…?"

Viktor's question hangs between us, raw and vulnerable in a way I've never witnessed from him before. His perfect facade—the calculating lieutenant, the controlled operative—has cracked open, revealing something dangerously human beneath. I see it in the slight tremor of his hands, the almost imperceptible strain around his eyes, the careful way he's controlling his breathing.

"Yes." I meet his gaze directly, my voice steadier than my racing heart. "I've been struggling with the burden of telling you since the moment you reappeared in my life."

"And before that?" His voice drops lower, each word carrying the dangerous weight of barely restrained fury. "During your pregnancy? After her birth? At any point in the four months of her life you've kept hidden from me?"

The accusation lands like a physical blow. I move to the window of the safe house, needing distance between us as emotions threaten to overwhelm my carefully maintained control. Through the bulletproof glass, I watch moonlight spill across the security perimeter—a beautiful prison keeping danger out and secrets in.

"How could I?" I turn back to face him, allowing real emotion to color my voice for the first time. "I had no way to contact you. I wasn’t even sure Viktor Baranov was your real name."

"It was necessary…"

"I know that now," I cut him off, unwilling to accept justifications after the fact. My fingernails dig into my palms as I struggle to maintain composure. "But then? All I knew was the man I'd trusted disappeared the moment I was vulnerable." I step closer, letting him see the truth in my eyes. "The woman who goes home to Moscow pregnant with a stranger's child—a stranger who vanished without trace—doesn't exactly receive understanding from the Bratva world."

His jaw tightens, tendons standing out along his neck as he acknowledges the truth of my assessment even as rage continues to simmer beneath his controlled exterior.

"Then why not terminate?" The question flies out of his mouth without consideration, but I see the pulse hammering at his throat, belying his dispassionate tone. "Eliminate the complication entirely. The Markov organization has medical resources beyond standard protocols."

"Because she is mine." The answer erupts from somewhere primal, somewhere beyond calculation or strategy. My hand moves unconsciously to the locket at my throat, feeling its weight against my skin. "Mine before she was anyone else's. My choice. My responsibility. My daughter."

"Our daughter." His correction carries warning despite the softness of his tone. He steps forward, invading my space with deliberate intent, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "A Baranov as much as a Markov."

"Yes." I concede this undeniable truth, thinking of those silver eyes in our daughter's face. The same eyes watching me now, piercing through every defense I've built. "Which is precisely why I told no one. Especially not my father. A child born with a strange man whose bloodline was unknown to me would become immediate leverage in Bratva politics. A bargaining chip. A liability to the Markovs, a pawn to be deployed for organizational advantage regardless of her wellbeing."

His expression changes subtly, understanding penetrating the anger that dominated our initial confrontation. For a moment, he looks away, revealing vulnerability he permits no one else to witness.

"The Switzerland arrangement." He approaches the tactical problem with analytical thought, turning away to pace the length of the room. Each step measured, controlled, as if physical movement might contain the emotional storm inside him. "Nine months of alleged diplomatic training. Secure medical facilities under false identities. Communications through encrypted channels that exceed standard Bratva protocols. Counter-surveillance measures beyond organizational norms."

"All of it." I nod, watching him with wary attention, cataloging each micro-expression that betrays the turmoil beneath his controlled exterior. "Every resource I could access. Every contingency I could anticipate. Every protection I could establish."

"And the caretaker?" His gaze snaps back to mine, laser-focused and intense. "Someone with sufficient loyalty to maintain operational security for extended duration. Someone beyond Bratva influence or intimidation."

I hesitate, the name caught in my throat. This information—this final piece of Sofia's protection—feels too precious to share, even with her father. But those silver eyes demand truth, and I find myself unable to deny him.

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