Rowan is feeding Sofiya when I return, propped against pillows in our bed, looking exhausted but radiant. She glances up as I enter. Her eyes are immediately searching my face, my clothes, my hands for signs of what happened.
“You didn’t kill him,” she concludes after a moment.
“No.” I remove my jacket and holster, setting them aside. “I didn’t.”
I sit on the edge of the bed to watch our daughter nurse. Her tiny fist rests against Rowan’s breast, milk-drunk and at ease. “Because the man you believe I can be wouldn’t do that,” I answer honestly. “And because his death right now would create more problems than it solves.”
I explain the arrangement I’ve made with my father. How he’ll retain his symbolic position while I take control of operations. How the council has backed my play. How t
