I mutter under my breath in Russian, the words muffled by her blonde hair as I tell her that she’s too good for this. Too sweet to be trapped here with monsters. That she should never have fallen into our lives, but that it doesn’t matter now. It’s too late. “Yesli ty uydesh', ya naydu tebya,” I breathe. “Ya vyslezhu tebya i vernu tuda, gde ty dolzhna byt’.” What I said to the Donovan gang that night rings even more true right now. Everything under our roof is ours. And that includes Willow.
