Page 177

Vera sits at the edge of her bed with the folder open across her bare thighs. Her hair falls over one breast as she reads the first page, and the sheet lies forgotten near her hip.

She lowers one foot to the floor, then the other. She closes the folder, sets it on the bed, and stands. I have to stop myself from reaching for her.

She bends for the sheet, draws it slowly around her bare body, then gathers the ends between her breasts and ties them in a loose knot over her sternum. The fabric covers her breasts but leaves the shape of them clear, while one long leg remains bare where the sheet parts.

I stay against the pillows.

She’s close enough for me to take by the waist and bring back to bed. My body wants her there, warm and open beneath my hands, but the papers in her grip matter more than what I want for the next five minutes.

Vera carries the folder to the side table and sits in the chair beside it. She keeps one hand over the knot at her chest while she opens the first document again.

It started with one night. We both thought it would end there.

Then Misha changed everything.

Vera kept him from me because she knew what my name could bring to his door. But once I found out, she never tried to keep him from me. She showed me what he liked, what scared him, how he slept, how he counted wrong on purpose. When I got it wrong, she told me. When I got it right, she let me stay.

She had every reason to take Misha and run.

She stayed.

I made the mistake of thinking protection meant control. I took over her Blacklist claim, made decisions for her, and told myself it was safer that way.

Vera kept asking for one thing.

Trust me enough to stand beside you.

So now I’m fixing what I can.

Her claim belongs to no one. The papers can never be used against her again. And no man, including me, gets to decide where she belongs.

Signatures. Property. Custody. Money no Volkov can touch. Guards who answer to her. And one promise in writing. If I ever give her a reason to leave, she takes Misha and goes.

I want Vera in my bed, in my house, beside me for every year I have left. But I won’t ask her to stay while fear, debt, or our son can push her toward yes.

First, she gets every way out.

Her eyes move over the first page. Her cheeks are still flushed, her mouth still swollen from mine, but she reads every line with the same care she gives a surgical chart.

I stay where I am and let her finish. If she comes back to this bed after reading all of it, I’ll know she came back for me.

Her fingertip moves across the pages, tracing Nina Voronina’s registry seal, Leonid’s signature, and her own name beneath the heading. Then she turns toward me and tilts her head. The amber light from the bedside lamp warms her pale throat and catches in the loose strands of hair around her face.

“An acknowledgment of paternity with a custody agreement attached?” she asks.

I shift against the pillows so I can see her fully. “It recognizes me as Misha’s father.”

“I understand the heading.” She turns the page, and my attention catches on her lips, still pink and damp from kissing me. “Why does it say you can’t change his home, school, or medical care without my consent?”

“Because I can’t.”

I push myself up on one elbow and sit against the headboard.

Vera reads the clause again. The agreement recognizes my paternity, but it doesn’t change Misha’s surname or give me control over his daily life. She remains the parent who can approve his medical treatment and travel. I can’t remove him from her care, change his school, or place him under Volkov guardianship.

Her hands stop on the page. Her eyes widen before they lift to mine, and surprise softens her voice.

“You gave me final authority over where he lives?”