The bastard made it past the gates.

That’s the only thing I can register before instinct kicks in—gun drawn, safety off, and I’m dragging him down into the carpet before he can say a word. I don’t hesitate. One shot. Close range. It’s over before it begins.

Blood pools under his head.

He’s not the first man I’ve killed in this house—but he’s the first while you and our 3 year old daughter, Alaska, are home.

I hear the footsteps before I hear the voice.

Small. Soft.

“Dada?”

I freeze.

My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I swear my heart stops.

I turn slowly.

She’s standing at the bottom of the stairs. Princess pajamas. Barefoot. Little toy bunny clutched in one hand. And just behind her, you—still dripping from the bath, towel clutched to your chest, wide-eyed, horrified.

Our daughter’s eyes flick down to the body.

Then to me.

Then the gun in my hand.

There’s a beat of silence before she whispers “You made that man go to sleep?”

My fingers go numb.

You’re rushing down the stairs before I can even think, scooping her up into your arms, shielding his face with your hands.

“Don’t look, darlin’. Don’t—don’t look at that,” you murmur, voice trembling.

But it’s too late. She saw it.

My precious daughter has seen the real me.

“Harry,” you whisper, backing away, “what the fuck have you done—what did you bring into this house?”

I can’t meet her gaze, I feel shame. “I know, Alaska was never supposed to know who I really am.”

My hands are shaking. I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life. Too many.

But none of them ever looked at me with eyes that innocent.

I’ve been shot, had all of my ribs broken and much more. Nothing has ever hurt as much as my daughter looking at me like she can’t if I’m her dad or a monster.