"Do you want some hot chocolate?" I ask, sitting on the floor a few feet away from the bed. I keep my distance, my legs crossed, my hands resting on my knees. I don't want to crowd him. I don'twant to look like another keeper. "The cook makes it with real chocolate. It’s very thick."
Oleg doesn't look up. "Sergei said I wasn't allowed to have sugar before bed."
"Sergei isn't here anymore," I say, keeping my voice soft, though the mere mention of his name makes a cold spark of anger flare in my chest. "And in this house, you can have chocolate whenever you want."
"Who lives here?" he asks, his voice a tiny, shaky murmur.
"I do. And Mikhail." I glance toward the door.
Mikhail is sitting in a leather chair just outside the threshold of the room. He hasn't tried to come in. He hasn't tried to speak to Oleg or tower over him with his massive frame. He’s just sitting there, a quiet, dark shadow in a clean black shirt, his fingers slowly tracing the edge of a small wooden toy car his people brought from the Alpine house. Every time Oleg’s eyes drift toward the doorway, Mikhail is there—steady, silent, and completely unthreatening. Well, as unthreatening as he can be.
It’s a side of him I’ve never seen.
"Is he the boss?" Oleg asks, his blue eyes finally rising to look at me.
"He thinks he is," I say, a small, genuine grin touching my lips. "But mostly he’s just loud. He grumbles a lot, but he doesn't bite unless you touch his things."
"He has a lot of tattoos," Oleg whispers.
"Yeah, he does. If you want, I’ll ask him to show you the one on his back. It looks like a big bird."
Oleg looks toward the door again. Mikhail doesn't look back, but he sets the wooden car on the floor near the entrance, within the boy's line of sight, before leaning his head back against the wall.
"Are you really my mom?" Oleg asks, his voice dropping so low I have to lean forward to hear it.
A sudden, wet warmth rises behind my eyes. I swallow the lump in my throat, my fingers digging into the fabric of my jeans to keep from reaching out and grabbing him. "I am, baby. I’ve been looking for you for years. Every single day."
"Why did you leave me?"
"I didn't want to," I say, my voice trembling. "My father—your grandfather—he took you before I could even hold you. He told me you were gone. He lied to me, Oleg. Just like he lied to you."
"He was mean," Oleg says, his bottom lip trembling. "He never let me go outside the fence. He said the world was full of bad people who wanted to steal me."
"He was the bad person," I say, my voice turning to iron. "But he’s gone now. He can never touch you again. I promise."
Oleg looks at me for a long beat, his blue eyes so deep and familiar it makes my throat ache. He slowly slides off the edge of the bed, his small sneakers hitting the rug. He walks over, slow and tentative, and sits down on the floor three feet away from me.
It’s a start. It’s the first real step we’ve taken in seven years.
"Can I have the chocolate now?" he asks.
"I'll go get it," I say, a wet, happy laugh escaping my lips.
As I stand up, the door downstairs clicks open.
I head into the hallway, stopping near Mikhail’s chair. He looks up at me, his blue eyes soft as he takes in the flush on my cheeks.
"He's talking," I whisper, my hand coming down to rest on his shoulder. "He asked about your tattoos."
"I’ll cover them up if they scare him," Mikhail grunts, his hand coming up to wrap around my wrist. His palm is hot and heavy, a constant comfort.
"They don't scare him," I say. "He thinks you look like a superhero."
Mikhail lets out a short, grunted huff that sounds like a laugh. "A superhero. That’s a first."
We head downstairs to find the family has arrived.
The foyer is full of the soft murmur of voices. Artyom is sitting on the bench near the coat rack, looking pale but steady, his hand locked in Kira’s. She’s carrying a large cardboard box filled with things that look like children's books and stuffed animals.
