Page 18 of Filthy Lies

“Meet your daughter.” She peels back the makeshift blanket to reveal a perfect, tiny face. “Sofiya Akopov.”

My daughter.

Fuck—mydaughter.

Her face is red and scrunched, still streaked with the remnants of birth. Dark wisps of hair cling to her scalp. She has my chin, Rowan’s nose, and when she blinks up at me with unfocused eyes, I see a blue that mirrors my own.

She’s impossibly small. Unbelievably perfect. And I would wreak horrible vengeance on the world to keep her safe.

“You did this,” I say to Rowan. Awe steals the strength from my voice. “You brought her into the world. Here. In this hell.”

Rowan’s eyes shine with exhausted tears. “I tried to wait for you, but she’s stubborn. Wonder where she gets that from?”

“She’s brave,” I counter, touching Sofiya’s cheek with one trembling finger. “Like her mother.”

I look at the dead guard, at the syringe lying on the floor beside Rowan.

This woman, my wife, has realigned something fundamental in the universe. The mathematics of power and vulnerability have been rewritten by her courage.

She gave birth in captivity.

She protected our child with nothing but a dirty syringe and sheer will.

And she’s looking at me now likeI’mthe one who did something remarkable.

One day, she’ll realize just who she is.

I holster my weapon and take them both fully into my arms, careful not to crush the tiny life between us. Rowan sags against me, her strength finally giving way now that I’m here.

“I’ve got you,” I promise. I press my lips to her forehead. “Both of you. I’ve got you now.”

“I knew you’d come,” she murmurs. “I told Sofiya her daddy would find us. I kept telling her that over and over again. It’s the only thing that kept her from crying.”

My eyes burn. It’s not weakness that wets my lashes—it’s something else entirely. Something I never believed I was capable of feeling.

Humility.

Because this woman—this blood-covered, glass-wielding, child-protecting warrior—chose me. Fuck knows I don’t deserve her love.

“We need to move,” Daniel warns from the doorway, his gun drawn. “Reinforcements are coming.”

I gather Rowan into my arms. She’s alarmingly light, but her grip on our daughter remains firm even as she drifts in and out of consciousness.

“Clear a path,” I order. “No one touches them. No one even looks at them.”

Daniel nods and steps into the hallway to relay the command.

I look down at my wife—at her pale face smeared with blood and tears, at the fierce set of her jaw even in near-unconsciousness, at the protective curl of her body around our newborn daughter.

In that moment, I understand something I’ve spent a lifetime denying: There is strength in vulnerability. Power in devotion. A kind of victory that has nothing to do with conquest and everything to do with what you’re willing to sacrifice.

Rowan found that strength. In the darkest chapter of her life, she didn’t break. She became something new. Something magnificent.

And as I carry her and our daughter through a gauntlet of death toward freedom, I silently vow to be worthy of that transformation.

To be worthy of them both.

8

---