Page 130 of Single Mom's Daddies
I’ve fought grown men with knives, taken bullets, dragged my brothers bleeding through back doors. I’ve negotiated with sociopaths and bribed corrupt judges and buried bodies to protect the people I love.
But I can’t do a damn thing for Ivy in there. I can’t shield her. I can’t talk her through it. I can’t hold her hand. I just have to sit here, useless.
Saffron suddenly leans forward, elbows on her knees, and covers her face with both hands. Her shoulders shake once. A shallow, controlled sob.
Roman is next to her in two steps. He kneels, touches her wrist. “Hey. She’s strong. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met.”
Saffron lowers her hands. Her eyes are wet but hard. “She’s still just a little girl.”
“I know.” He squeezes her fingers. “But she’s our little girl.”
Nikolai stops pacing and sits on the edge of a chair, facing her. “You know, when she wakes up, the first thing she’s gonna do is demand juice and pancakes like nothing happened.”
Saffron laughs once, watery and thin. “Yeah. With extra whipped cream.”
“Obviously,” Nik says. “She’s a tyrant.”
I add, “She gets that from her mother.”
Saffron swats at me halfheartedly and leans into my side. I wrap my arm around her, resting my cheek on her hair.
The surgeon comes out hours—years—later.
We all rise at once.
He smiles. “It went better than expected.”
Saffron gasps, hand flying to her mouth.
“The heart took beautifully,” the surgeon continues. “We’ve started her on immunosuppressants and pain management. Assuming recovery is smooth, there’s no reason she shouldn’t live a long, healthy life.”
My breath punches out of me. Roman catches Saffron around the waist when her knees nearly buckle. Nikolai mutters something in Russian under his breath.
“Can we see her?” I ask.
“She’s sleeping,” the doctor says. “But yes. One at a time, for now.”
Saffron goes first. She disappears down the hall, the surgical team making way for her without a word.
Roman claps a hand on my shoulder as we watch her go. I turn away, walk to the window at the end of the hall. Press my forehead to the glass. And let myself feel everything.
The tide of terror that had been raging at me to let it take over. The relief that I won’t really feel until I see her smile again.
She’s going to be okay. My little girl is going to be okay. She’ll run. Laugh again. Play. Grow up.
It’s everything we could ever ask for and more.
40
NIKOLAI
The estate breathes at night.
Most wouldn’t hear it. They’d call it wind through the trees, or the hum of electricity, or maybe the distant echo of traffic that barely reaches the iron gate. But I hear it. A kind of exhale. A release.
I walk the grounds in silence, hands in my pockets, boots crunching soft over the gravel. The sky above is ink, stars sharp as glass, the moon resting low over the treetops. The breeze carries woodsmoke and the crisp hint of winter.
During the day, the estate hums with motion—voices, footsteps, arguments over security rotations, kitchen staff prepping meals, kids racing through the halls like they own the place. And maybe they do. Hell, maybe we built it for them.
