Page 129 of Terror at the Gates

“I just need a moment,” I said.

I thought Zahariev would move past me, but he didn’t, and I wondered if he stayed behind me to keep me from fleeing.

“Is it Livie?” Gabriel called from another room.

“Livie?” I asked, looking up at Zahariev, curious.

She was the teenage daughter of one of his soldiers. I’d had little interaction with her, save for the few family-friendly parties Zahariev had hosted at his compound. She’d been sweet to me initially, but as the years passed, she’d developed a crush on Zahariev and decided I was the enemy.

“She’s going to watch Liam,” Zahariev explained.

At that moment, Gabriel walked into view. He wasn’t even ready yet, wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of blue plaid pajama bottoms. His blond hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions like he hadn’t put a brush through it in days. I suspected he hadn’t even showered.

When he saw me, he froze, and his eyes widened a little.

“Lily,” he said, taking a breath. “It’s good to see you.”

My mouth was already quivering. I pushed away from the wall and went to him, slipping my arms around his waist. He hugged me tight.

“I’m sorry, Gabriel,” I whispered as a few stray tears trailed down my cheek.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, baby girl,” he said. His voice was warm and gentle. It made me feel at home, even though everything had changed.

After a few seconds, I smelled sour milk and pulled away.

“Gabriel,” I said. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you smell.”

“Which is why he’s supposed to be in the shower,” said Zahariev.

He was standing behind me, leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed over his chest, looking pointedly at Gabriel.

“I’ll take a shower,” he said. “Hey, but first, do you want to meet Liam?”

“Yeah,” I said with a nod. My smile still felt shaky.

“You have twenty minutes,” Zahariev warned.

Gabriel dismissed him with a wave as he headed toward Liam’s room. “Plenty of time!”

I laughed quietly at him, even as I wiped at the tears on my face.

“You okay?” Zahariev asked.

I turned to look at him. He was standing in the kitchen, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. On the counter in front of him sat a canister of formula.

“Are you making a bottle?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “You wanna help?”

“I don’t think that’s a two-person job,” I said.

The corners of his lips twitched. “You’re probably right.”

“When did you learn to make a bottle?”

I was curious. It wasn’t something I expected him toknow, given his status, even with the instructions written on the container.

“I had two younger brothers,” he said.

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