The first year after we moved in together wasn’t easy. Thankfully, with the help of good lawyers and all the information Samuel Dusinsky, aka Hatchet, supplied, anyone involved in Hatch’s MC and Elijah’s crew was tried and imprisoned. Everyone except my brother. The information he provided to law enforcement must’ve been good because all he got was home arrest along with a lifetime of community service and the threat of imprisonment if he even looked at the wrong side of the law. Birdman, Jayden, and Harrison refused to cooperate and each did a little time for drug dealing.
“Wait.” Trix tugs on my hand. “What if . . . I mean . . . what if they—?”
I silence her with a kiss. My heart warms at the tenderness reflected in her eyes. I cup her face and tilt her chin. My thumb brushes along the scar that runs the length of her neck and she melts into my chest. “Baby, are you getting cold feet?”
A tiny grin ticks her lips. “I can’t feel my feet.”
I chuckle and kiss the tip of her nose. “Do you regret not having family here with us? I know your dad wanted to—”
“No. I want it to just be us. It’s important to me.”
“Okay, so what is it? I know I’m ready, we bought a house, you’re working full-time at the Youth Center, my job at the UFL is secure . . . we’re ready.”
Her hair, now naturally blond and free of purple streaks, whips around her face with the arctic wind. She tugs down her beanie. “You’re right. We’re ready. Plus, if we don’t do it soon, we’ll turn into icicles.”
Hand in hand we stomp up the snow-covered steps to a large door.
“Here we go.” She squeezes my hand one more time before I pull it open and usher her inside.
We’re greeted by an older lady, who rattles off something in Russian. I’ve been studying for the last year, but her words are too quick to keep up with.
“My zdes’ dlya nashikh detey.” Trix’s words come out just as quickly, and luckily that’s a phrase I’m familiar with.
A grin tugs at my lips, and my chest is engulfed with warmth. We’re here for our children.
Trix
I can’t breathe. Stepping through the doors of the orphanage where Svetlana and I were adopted from, I’m overwhelmed with so much love. I don’t remember my time here, but my soul recognizes it instinctually.
After we show the woman up front our paperwork and identification, she motions for us to follow her.
My hand is gripped so tightly in Mason’s I don’t know who is holding harder. The Russian language filters through from different rooms, echoing on walls along with the giggles of children. Each time we pass one, my heart leaps in my chest, conflicted between the feelings of joy that we get to take ours home and the knowledge of those who’re left behind.
Mason must feel my tension as his hand releases mine to curl over my shoulder and pull me to his side. His lips touch the shell of my ear. “Don’t worry, baby. God has a plan for all of them. There’s a family waiting somewhere.”
I nod and hug him to me.
“Zhdi zdes’,” the woman barks, and she leaves us in a room that looks like a classroom filled with small desks and books.
“She said wait here.”
I grin up at him. “Your Russian is improving, Mr. Mahoney.”
“I have a great teacher, Mrs. Mahoney.” He flashes a big grin; all those white teeth and full lips have me practically swooning, even after two and a half years of marriage.
I pull off my beanie and shrug off my fur-lined coat, suddenly melting from the inside. Unable to sit still, I pace the small room.
“Bea, baby,” He leans against a bookshelf looking like the picture of calm hot dude. “Breathe.” He’s always so relaxed, solid, and constant. He’s my rock.
Footsteps sound from down the hallway, and Mason comes to my side, his hand around my waist.
The woman appears, and when she steps aside, a four-year-old boy peers up at us, his big brown eyes wide with fear. My heart lurches in my chest.
I step forward and drop to my knees. “Ne boysya, Feliks.” Don’t be afraid. I press my hand to my heart. “Ya Beatriks.” I’m Beatriks.
He nods, understanding, but his hand grips something behind him.
I lean over to see the dark eyes of a two-year-old little girl wearing a tattered frilly pink dress. Tears well in my eyes.
“Moya sestra, Tatyana.” My sister. He presses his free hand to his chest. “Moya sestra.”
My breath leaves on a rush, and I almost tumble backwards except for the powerful arms that come behind me to hold me up. Tears stream down my face, the rightness and power of the moment nearly taking me off my feet.
“My zdes', chtoby otvezti tebya domoy.” The deep timbre of Mason’s voice as the words fall from his lips send renewed strength. We’re here to take you home.
Feliks’ eyes widen, but this time not with fear, with excitement. “My oba?”
“Yes, both of you. Vy oba.”
Tatyana steps out from behind her big brother, her head a mess of dark curls and skin as pale as the snow. “Feliks?”
The boy, our son, doesn’t take his eyes off Mason. “Mama i papa?”
“Da.” Yes. The one word shakes from Mason’s lips.