Page 53 of Playing with Fire

"He seems happy."

I didn't turn at the sound of my mother's voice. She moved like I did, silent and deadly, heels or no heels. Her reflection appeared on the security monitor beside mine.

"He's resilient," I replied, flipping to another camera feed. "Adapts quickly."

Mom's hand settled on my shoulder gently. "You picked well with that one."

I grunted in response.

"Have you heard from your father?"

"Which one?" I asked, my voice deliberately light. "The one who raised me or the one whose DNA I'm unfortunately carrying?"

Her eyes narrowed. “Yuri.”

I shook my head. “No, not yet.”

"Keep trying him," Mom said, her voice betraying more concern than she probably intended. "I don't like that he's not answering."

I rose from my chair, the need to move suddenly overwhelming. "I'm going to check on Leo."

Mom nodded, understanding without explanation. In times of threat, we all had our anchors, the people who kept us grounded when the world tilted sideways. Hers was Dad. Mine was Leo.

I found him exactly where the surveillance feeds had shown him, bent over a workbench in the makeshift studio, trimming what appeared to be a piece of foam armor. Misha sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, sorting through bins of fabric scraps.

"Hey," I said from the doorway.

Leo's hands froze momentarily at the sound of my voice. His body recognized me before his conscious mind did, relaxing even as he turned in surprise.

"Hey," he said, a smile breaking across his face. The simple joy in that expression hit me with physical force, something twisting painfully in my chest at the thought of anything dimming that light. "Misha's been helping me figure out the best way to structure the pauldrons. Apparently the secret is a quilted backing."

"Learned it from a cosplayer in Paris," Misha chimed in, not looking up from his color sorting. "Distributes the weight better, especially for pieces that extend past the shoulder."

I moved into the room. The need to verify his safety, to see him whole and unharmed, overrode all other priorities. I settled a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair in a gesture that was both possessive and reassuring.

"Everything okay?" he asked, eyes searching mine. He read me too well now, catching subtleties in my expression that others missed.

"Just restless," I said, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily. "Dad's not answering his phone."

Leo's brow furrowed with concern. "That's not like him."

"No. It's not."

I shook my head. "Maybe I'm being paranoid, but after everything that's happened..."

"Better paranoid than dead," Leo said, setting aside his project. "Do you want me to try calling him?"

I nodded, grateful for his pragmatic approach. No excessive questions, no panic, just ready assistance. I felt that painful twist in my chest again. "Stay close."

Leo nodded, understanding the subtext. My brain worked better when I wasn't dividing resources between problem solving and worrying about his location. In combat situations, this was our standard protocol—he stayed in my sightline, I kept us both alive.

I was reaching for my phone when it buzzed with an incoming text from an unknown number.

A FATHER FOR A FATHER.

"What the fuck?" I muttered, staring at the screen. "Who is this?"

Leo peered at my phone. "Spam maybe?"

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