Page 89 of Bratva and Betrayal: Kirill

The weather has definitely taken a turn in the few minutes we’ve been out here.

“Just a few more minutes,” I say through the sharp wind and dash to chase her, much like I did that day in the parlor.

I lose track of time as we chase each other, a game invented on the fly. Violet’s laughter drowns out the whir of the falling snow.

When I catch her again, I don’t let go. I don’t remember holding her for the first time, or the sound of her crying in her crib at night. But I have this. She’s squirming and laughing. It feels so good and real that I want to cry.

Next, we’re both rolling around and laughing. The wind has picked up even more, and the flakes feel heavier, drenching my clothes.

A dark figure cuts across the white, not caring about ruining any leftover untouched perfection. I think it’s a guard, but my joy fractures as I look up to see Kirill marching toward us. His vibe feels dark, like that day in Arizona. His coat flares behind him, his expression hardening with every step.

Uh oh…

His gaze sweeps over Violet, who’s sitting in the snow, creating a wall around her. Then he looks at me with stifled anger.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says, his voice cutting through the air like a sharp knife. “Violet, you’re soaked. Get in the house right now.”

His tone jolts me, another memory kicking me in the stomach. Did we have bad fights? Do I know this man?

“Daddy, no.”

To my surprise, he doesn’t give in to her. He lurches forward and lifts her effortlessly from the snowy pile.

She giggles, thinking it’s a game. “Daddy!”

He pulls off one of her gloves and glares at me. “Her fingers are frozen.”

Panic flaring, I touch her small hand, reddened and ice cold.

“She didn’t say anything,” I murmur, guilt rushing at me like a tidal wave. “I’m sorry.”

He’s already turning back toward the house, but Violet isn’t having it.

“No!” she cries, twisting in his grip, her small fists pushing against his chest. “I want Mommy!”

Kirill freezes, his world narrowing to that single plea. Caring for her overrides his anger, even if this is really my fault.

“I got this,” I say, catching up to him, my arms outstretched. “I’ll get her dry. I’ll get her warm. We were out here for ten minutes, Kirill.”

“Frostbite can happen in two minutes.”

“Daddy! I want Mommy.”

Kirill’s eyes slip closed. He brings his face to hers and whispers something. Then with a kiss to her forehead, he turns to me and slowly hands her over.

I earned my mother’s wings in that moment as she settles against me. Her arms wrap around my neck, and it feels terrifyingly, overwhelmingly right.

Climbing through the snow, I reach the gate, then cross the freshly shoveled pavers. Guards watch me, their faces grim.

The pakhan is angry. Who will he take it out on?

I carry Violet inside and go straight up the stairs. Her head rests against my shoulder as she shivers against me.

Her bedroom is warm, but I bring her into the bathroom to avoid drenching the carpet with leftover snow. I set her down and turn on the shower to fill the room with steam for relaxing warmth.

Violet has already peeled off her coat, but her little arms are stuck.

My hands tremble as I realize how soaked everything is. The cold has turned her skin into a raw red surface. Dreadful guilt hits me so hard my vision suddenly blurs.