Page 99 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
"Then why good?" I asked.
She looked at me. Her green eyes were very clear. "Because for once I know he's coming. I know the date, the time, and the door. That's practically luxurious compared to my usual trauma arrangements." She grinned, looking at each of us in turn. “And he thinks I’m dead. Imagine that, he expects Mary and he’s going to get the daughter he tells everyone is dead.”
Ivan stared at her for one more beat, then laughed under his breath.
Maeve pointed at him. "Don't look so proud. I'm still angry with organized crime as a concept."
"All of it?"
"Most of it. I'm willing to make exceptions for good childcare and excellent security."
She walked out. The door clicked shut behind her.
“That’s our omega," Artem said. There was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, the one that meant he was proud of her and trying not to be obvious about it.
I left them to their strategy and went to find Fergus.
He was back in the mudroom, lying on his comfy dog bed with a chicken treat between his paws. He looked up when I came in.
"She’s brave," I told him.
Fergus tilted his head.
"Her father is about to see her alive and her response was good."
The treat crunched.
"I don't understand her," I said. "I've been watching her for weeks and I still don't understand how she does it. How shetakes something that should break her and turns it into—" I stopped. "Fuel. Ammunition. Whatever the word is."
Fergus finished the treat and waited for another.
"She held my hand." I pulled a treat from my jacket pocket and held it out. Fergus took it delicately. "And kissed it."
Fergus chewed.
"I am very good at threat assessment and adequate at hydration reminders. I am not good at—" I gestured vaguely. "The emotional stuff, but I’m trying."
The dog offered no solutions. This was the problem with canine counsel. Supportive, but limited in practical application.
Later that afternoon, I passed Mac's nursery on the way to check the second-floor windows. Security was security, even when emotions were running high. Especially then.
The door was cracked open.
I stopped.
Maeve was inside, sitting cross-legged on the rug with Mac in her lap. Her voice was low and melodic, a rhythm I didn't recognize. It took me several seconds to place the language.
Irish.
She was speaking in Irish to our son.
I couldn't understand the words, but I understood the cadence. Then she spoke in English. She was telling him a story. The grandmother he'd never meet. The country she'd been forced to flee. She was taking the pieces of her past that had been weaponized against her and turning them into something she could give away.
Ivan appeared beside me. We stood together in the hallway, neither of us moving, neither of us speaking.
Her voice rose and fell. Mac made a soft sound.
Ivan reached out and pulled the door gently shut.
