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It’s time I stopped being an ostrich and learned the truth—and we both laid our cards on the table.
* * *
It’s forty minutes later and almost dinnertime when their SUV pulls up to the house. I’ve spent these forty minutes getting ready, both mentally and physically. My hair is brushed and coiled into an updo, my makeup is nearly as perfect as Alina’s, and I’m wearing a shimmering white gown with two side slits that show off my legs and my golden strappy heels. In my ears are a pair of diamond stud earrings Nikolai gifted me, and around my neck is the heart-shaped necklace Alina lent me once before, for my first dressed-up dinner here. I was going to wear one of my own pieces, but she insisted that her necklace was what the outfit required.
“Trust me on this,” she said mysteriously. “This is precisely what Nikolai needs to see tonight.”
I decided to do exactly that and trust her for now, though I’m beyond curious what she meant. If I don’t get all the answers from Nikolai tonight, I will get them out of her.
No more burying my head in the sand.
I’m done being a coward.
Despite my resolve, my heart pounds erratically as I hurry downstairs to greet my husband and our son.
Slava comes in first—or rather barrels in like the little ball of energy a boy his age can be.
“Mama Chloe!” He runs straight for me, and I catch him mid-leap, staggering back under the weight of his small yet sturdy body as my previously injured ankle wobbles in its strappy heel. He smells like medicine and baby shampoo, and I’m so happy to feel his short arms squeezing my neck that I don’t care about the potential re-injury—or my makeup getting smeared as he places wet, loud smooches on my cheeks.
“I puke lots,” he announces triumphantly after I finally set him down, and I can’t help laughing as he launches into a tale about his hospital adventures in a tangled mix of English and Russian, with the gist of the story boiling down to how gross all the puking was.
“What is this? Shouldn’t you be all weak and sickly?” Alina asks with amusement, and I realize she’s come down to stand next to me. Grinning hugely, she goes down to her knees and grabs Slava in a big hug of her own while whispering to him conspiratorially in Russian.
“Yes, I am Superman,” he declares when she’s done, and I laugh again, overjoyed to see him doing so well.
“He slept most of the way here and woke up with all this energy,” Nikolai says, his deep voice startling me so much I pivot sharply—and nearly fall as the stupid ankle buckles underneath me, sending a spike of pain shooting up my leg.
I say “nearly” because, as always, Nikolai catches me, his powerful arms closing around me before I hit the floor.
“Easy there, zaychik,” he murmurs, his eyes a greener shade of gold as he steadies me against his big, warm body and looks me over, holding me by my upper arms. “One trip to the hospital is plenty.”
My heart teleports into my throat as the full impact of his nearness hits me like a wrecking ball. My knees join my ankle in buckling, and my skin ignites with sensations, each cell drinking in the heat emanating from his fingers, the delicious strength and roughness of his callused palms. Like Slava, he smells of the hospital, but underneath is a seductive hint of bergamot and an even fainter trace of cedar, mixed with that warm, masculine aroma that’s all his.
“You’re here.” It’s a dumb comment, but all my neurons appear to have gone out for a hike. All I can do is stare up at his face with its high, wide cheekbones and fierce jawline, transfixed by the juxtaposition of wildness and elegance that makes him such a dangerously alluring contradiction.
My husband.
My protector.
My secret watcher.
Is his love something to crave or fear?
He cups my cheek, his eyes darkening as his gaze drops down to my lips. “I’m here, zaychik.” Ignoring our audience, he dips his head and slants his mouth across mine, claiming it in a deep, soul-scorching kiss.
My heart is racing in my chest, my skin overly warm by the time he pulls away. As usual, everyone is ignoring our outrageous PDA. Pavel and Lyudmila have come in as well, and they’re talking to Alina in Russian while Slava interrupts with stories of his own.
I look back at Nikolai—only to freeze at the chilling look on his face. His gaze is glued to my throat, a muscle ticking violently in his jaw. What the—?
And then I realize what he’s looking at.
Not my throat.
The necklace Alina gave me, the one she said he needed to see tonight.
With sudden clarity, I recall her drugged-out mumblings that awful morning when I fled. Like with so many other things relating to my situation, I haven’t allowed myself to think about her actual words in recent weeks, to dwell on them for any length of time. But now they come to me, along with everything else I’ve heard about this family, about how Nikolai is so much like his father.
