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“Mama Chloe,” he exclaims, looking up at me with an even bigger grin, and it’s all I can do to hide my shock at his easy acceptance of this change in our dynamic. Where’s the resentment? The wariness at the sudden change in his life? Not that I’m not happy he’s so on board. Nikolai must’ve talked to him at some point today, warned him about what’s going to happen. Still, I would’ve expected at least a short adjustment period. Unless of course—
I stop myself. None of that is important right now. Framing Slava’s upturned face with my palm, I give him the brightest smile I can muster. “Yes, darling. We’re a family now. You can call me Mama or anything else you want.”
As jarring as it is to suddenly find myself in the role of a parent, I have a feeling Slava is going to be the least complicated part of this marriage, and not just because I feel zero shame in admitting that the child already has my heart.
When I glance over at Nikolai, his expression is warmly approving. Smiling, he brings the hand he’s holding to his lips and kisses my knuckles one by one, sending tingles down my spine and making Slava giggle.
“Mama Chloe,” he repeats excitedly and bounces over to Alina, chattering at her in Russian.
“Congratulations again,” she says as I catch her gaze. Quietly, she adds, “I’m glad to have you as my sister.”
Sister. Right. Because that’s what it means, to marry. One gains not just a husband, but a family. Like a son, a sister, two brothers, and however many cousins… all the siblings and relatives I never had.
For the first time, I comprehend just how much my life is changing.
I’m no longer an orphan, making my way alone in the world.
* * *
The realization is still reverberating through me as the photographer shepherds us outside to take a million pictures on the cliffside, where the summer breeze kisses our faces with pine-scented coolness.
Not an orphan.
Not an only child of a single mother who had no family of her own.
How long have I secretly wished for something like this? In my imagination, it was my father who would come into my life and introduce me to all the cousins, aunts, and uncles I never knew I had, but who turn out to be wonderful. Now, knowing what I know about Bransford, I can’t imagine it. Just the thought of meeting someone related to the man who’s trying to kill me is revolting. Thank God he has no other biological children—at least none the media is aware of. From what little I’ve allowed myself to read about him, I know he’s a widower who recently remarried. His first wife battled some rare form of cancer for a decade before passing away a few years back, and his new wife has two young children from her prior marriage—a girl and a boy he regularly parades in front of the cameras, playing the role of a wholesome, all-American husband and father to perfection.
If only they knew.
Lost in thought, I obey the photographer’s instructions on autopilot, and the next time I look around, the sun is setting behind the mountain peaks, bathing everything in a reddish-orange glow.
“That should be enough,” Nikolai says, and we return to the house, where the gourmet spread on the dining table puts Alina’s birthday celebration to shame. There’s everything from seafood to traditional Russian dishes to a huge variety of sushi and international delicacies like escargot.
They must’ve had most of this flown in; there’s no way Pavel had time to make even a fraction of what’s in front of us.
My stomach emits a growl, and I suddenly realize I’m ravenous. All that picture-taking must’ve been more energy intensive than it seemed. Or maybe it’s the stress. Either way, as soon as we sit down and Pavel makes the first toast to our health, I load my plate with five different types of caviar sandwiches, followed by blintzes, puff pastries, an enormous variety of pickled fruits and vegetables, lobster tails, cured meats, gourmet cheeses, and salads of every kind. Everything is as delicious as it looks, and my dress is bursting at the seams by the time I finally pause to take a breath.
Looking up from my plate, I catch Nikolai watching me with an indulgent smile.
“What?” I ask self-consciously, putting down my fork.
“Nothing. I just enjoy seeing you eat.”
More like seeing me pig out. My ears burn, but I grab another lobster tail. This food is just too freaking good, and if there’s anything I’ve learned during my month on the run, it’s not to take good food—or any food—for granted.
Two toasts later, however, I have to admit defeat. There’s no way I can eat anything else, and the main course isn’t even out yet. To distract myself from the overstuffed feeling, I look over at Nikolai, who’s explaining something to Pavel in Russian.
