It was too quiet.

You woke with a start, your mother’s instincts kicking in before your mind fully caught up. No crying. No soft sounds of your baby stirring. The silence was deafening.

Your heart pounded as you threw off the covers, rushing to the crib. But the moment you saw the empty space where your baby should have been, the air was knocked from your lungs. Gone.

Panic surged through you as you stumbled out of the room, your breath ragged. Your hands trembled as you reached for the nearest weapon—a kitchen knife—before storming into the main part of the house.

And then you froze.

There, standing in the dim glow of your kitchen, was him.

Nikolai Volkov.

The man you swore you’d never see again.

But he wasn’t looking at you. His sharp, unyielding expression had softened as he held your baby in his arms, cradling him with a familiarity that made your heart ache. His large hands—ones that had ended lives, ones that the world feared—were now rocking your son to sleep.

“You really thought you could keep him from me, Моя любовь?” (my love) His voice was low, almost quiet, but there was something dangerous underneath. “You should know by now… there’s nowhere in this world you can run where I won’t find you.”

And just like that, the past you had tried to escape had finally caught up with you.