Her eyes blink open, a blue as deep as Konstantin’s and as fierce as mine. Konstantin brushes a finger down her cheek, whispering to her in Russian.
The people I love move around us, each of them making their declarations to the new Bratva princess.
Kingston runs a finger over her hand until her tiny fingers wrap around it. Then I get to witness my big brother fall head over heels. “I’ll bury the world for you, princess.”
Lucetta leans over to brush a kiss against Calypso’s forehead. “The day you want to burn it all down, I’ll bring the matches.”
But Sunniva . . . she makes my daughter a crown out of tiny flannels and puts it on Calypso’s head. “All hail the Chaos Princess, Destroyer of Sleep, Empress of Spit-Up, and rightful heir to the Bogeyman Throne.”
Konstantin growls softly. “No throne. She will have empires.”
Sunniva ignores him and carries on. “I’m your fairy chaos-mother. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to set things on fire.”
Konstantin’s head snaps up, and he narrows his eyes.
Sunniva smiles impishly and amends, “Mostly metaphorically.”
And yet, there’s one person missing. I peer around and find Misha still leaning against the wall, watching us as if he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to come closer.
I tilt my head and smile tiredly at him. “You came with him to save me. Come meet the one you helped make safe.”
He makes his way over and kneels next to us. He gazes down at her with a smirk. “She already looks like she wants to stab someone. I approve.”
Healing doesn’t come in a clean line. It bleeds, stutters, and sinks its teeth in just when you think you can breathe again.
But in our house, there is laughter again. There’s warmth. There’s the sound of my husband’s voice humming low Russian lullabies while our daughter curls into his chest like she’s always belonged there.
Calypso was conceived in blood and ruin, but she came wailing into this world wrapped in love and vengeance.
Konstantin climbs to his feet gently and carries her over to the cradle he carved himself, its dark wood etched with protection sigils and her name spelled in Russian along the curve of the frame. She’s a storm who hasn’t even been in this world for a full day, yet she’s already got grown men wrapped around her tiny, chubby fist.
The hands that have seen so much violence are soft as they lay our sleeping daughter down.
Konstantin worships her, but my big brother has yet to stop pacing. Misha has once again taken his place as guard. Lucetta,pale but steady, rests back on the couch with the scars of her survival hidden under a soft jumper and an even stronger spine.
Sunniva’s currently draped across a pile of baby blankets, wearing glitter horns she procured from somewhere and dictating her new toddler curriculum she’s come up with over the last few hours. “Okay. What do you think about this? Lesson one: How to weaponize a pout. Lesson two: Mastering the art of the chaos giggle. Lesson three—and this one’s critical, okay—biting is only okay if they deserve it. Or if they touch your snacks.”
“You are not teaching my daughter to bite,” Konstantin deadpans.
“Oh, sweetie, she already knows how, guaranteed. She’syourkid.”
Kingston sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I need a bloody drink.”
“I already drank all the whiskey,” Sunniva adds helpfully.
“Misha? Want to have a drink with me?” he asks, ignoring Sunni.
“I do not drink with children present,” he replies before turning to Konstantin. “If any teenage boys come sniffing around in sixteen years, I will be fashioning a throne from their femurs.”
Konstantin doesn’t even blink. “We will carve her name into it.”
“Subtle,” Kingston remarks.
“Effective.”
“Scarring,” I mutter with a smile. “Better be prepared for their mothers to carry that same energy.”
I laugh when I catch the expressions on their faces. Such double standards in this world. I’ll be sure to teach my daughter to stand up when the world wants to bury her.
