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She is in the same position on the floor as when I left her. If she isn’t dead yet, she will be soon.
Just as I’m about to step over Rian, I hear footsteps pounding up the stairs.
I freeze, clutching Milaya to me, and then quickly grab the gun and hold it out, ready to shoot my way out of this house if I have to.
Then, I hear the lull in the steps. One loud thud and then a drag. One loud thud and then a drag.
I realize it is Luka coming up the stairs just as he rounds the corner.
When he sees the two of us standing in the hallway, his eyes go wide, and he lets out a sigh of relief that is close to a sob.
“Thank God,” he says, holding out his arms to catch me as I throw myself against him.
“You’re okay,” I whisper tearfully against his neck.
“I’m okay,” he whispers. Then, he pulls away and snuggles the back of Milaya’s head, kissing her tiny neck. “And you’re okay, too.”
“She’s perfect.” My lip trembles, and I drop the gun to wipe at my eyes. “She is perfectly safe.”
Luka looks past me and winces. “The same can’t be said for Agent Morrison.”
Even hearing her name floods my senses with the same rage I felt before. I wonder how long it will be before I can think about her without wishing I could kill her all over again.
“Can we go?” I ask. “Is it over? I want to go home.”
There is a commotion behind me, footsteps and shouting. Then, two shots and silence.
“Now we can,” Luka says. “The Bratva just took out the last two gunmen.”
Milaya yawns and then lays her cheek against my shoulder, and that mixed with the relief of this—the last week and a half of fear and torture and terror—finally being over makes me weep.
I lay my head on Luka’s shoulder, our daughter cradled between us, and cry with relief and happiness and exhaustion.
Luka smooths a hand down my back and then kisses me on the forehead. “Let’s go home.”
With one arm around his waist and the other around Milaya, I walk down the stairs and into the night.
It is over. Finally, it is all over.
Epilogue
Luka
Eve looks so at home in our kitchen, and I lean back against the counter and watch her work, taking in the sight.
It has only been three days since our escape from the Cartel, but I have logged a lifetime of memories in that time.
I’ve watched Eve sleep as the sun rises, casting our room in golden morning light. I’ve studied Milaya’s dimpled hands reaching for me. I’ve sat in the hallway and listened to the soothing sound of Eve singing our daughter to sleep and kissing her good night.
In three days, I have remembered and memorized every single thing I am grateful for in this life. Without fail, every single one of those things involves Eve and Milaya.
My girls. My family.
“Are you paying attention?” Eve asks, peering over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
Her face is still bruised, and I can’t wait for the reminder of our experience to be gone from her skin. My own wounds will leave scars, but Eve will carry her scars internally.
I’ve seen them show up already.
