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“It wasn’t about the money. He’s rich enough to have paid for ten illegitimate daughters.” Nikolai’s tone hardens. “It’s about his career. His run for president.”
Of course. The stakes are infinitely higher now, and while some politicians thrive on scandal, Bransford is an all-American icon of middle-class morals and values, with a squeaky-clean reputation that won’t survive this kind of hit.
Still, assuming all of this is true, there’s something that doesn’t fully make sense. I can see how Mom was a threat to him, since she could go public with her story at any point. But why try to kill me?
How villainous do you have to be to send assassins after your own child? Especially if she knows nothing about you?
Then, in a burst, it comes to me.
“I’m walking proof of his crime, aren’t I?” I say, staring at Nikolai. “A single DNA test, and he’s toast. Even if he tries to claim it was consensual, Mom was still underage at the time of my conception. Sixteen to his thirty-plus.”
Nikolai nods. “At the very least, he’s guilty of statutory rape. It’s the rare case where it’s not his word against hers. No matter how he tries to spin it, what he did is a criminal offense.”
“And he probably doesn’t know that Mom never told me about him. As far as he’s concerned, I can pop up at any moment, publicly claiming him as my father.”
“Afraid so, zaychik.” He tilts his head, studying me intently. “Are you okay?”
I start to nod on autopilot, then shake my head. “No. No, I’m not. I need a minute.” Or ten thousand minutes. Or the rest of my life.
My biological father is a rapist and a murderer who’s trying to kill me.
I don’t know how to even begin processing that.
Gaze filled with understanding, Nikolai squeezes my hand again, then curves his palm over my jaw and leans in, stroking my cheek with the edge of his thumb. “I’ll let you rest, zaychik,” he murmurs, his breath warm and subtly sweet against my lips. “We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better.”
Closing the small distance between us, he kisses me. His lips are gentle on mine, tender, yet I can sense the hungry possessiveness underneath the restraint. It terrifies me nearly as much as my body’s instinctive response.
I may evade Bransford with his help, but there will be no evading him.
There’s no escape from the devil.
5
Nikolai
Closing the door behind myself, I make a mental note to install some cameras in Chloe’s room, the way I have in Slava’s. Not because I feel compelled to watch her every moment of every day—though that need is definitely there—but because I’m worried about her.
I’ve had my entire life to come to terms with my fucked-up heritage, and there are days when I’m still tempted to slit my own throat. That or get a vasectomy, so the mistake I’d made that night with Ksenia can never be repeated. I wasn’t even aware that the condom was faulty, but it must’ve been.
That’s the only explanation for the existence of my son.
I was planning to go to my office, but my feet carry me to his room instead, propelled by the same compulsion I’m experiencing with Chloe.
Daddy, he called me when I returned home last night. I’d been too distracted by everything related to Chloe to take it in fully, but now I can’t help thinking about that word and the way my ribcage had filled with a strange, piercingly sweet ache. And it’s all because of her.
Chloe Emmons had not only discerned my deepest, most secret wish regarding my son; she’d made it come true.
Quietly, I push open the door to Slava’s bedroom and step in. As usual, he’s on the floor, diligently working on his LEGO castle. Lyudmila told me once that my son has a remarkably long attention span for a child who’s not yet five, and I suppose that must be true. From what I can recall of my younger brother, Valery, at this age, he was always running around and getting into trouble. Slava, on the other hand, is quiet and focused, much more the way Konstantin was as a child. I wonder if Slava has inherited my older brother’s aptitude for math and programming as well. I should probably introduce him to these subjects and find out.
At my entrance, his eyes—my eyes in miniature—shoot up to my face, the look in them equal parts quizzical and wary. My chest tightens with the usual discomfort, but I ignore the urge to back away, distancing myself from the unsettling feeling. Instead, I crouch in front of my son, giving his LEGO creation my full attention, the way I’ve seen Chloe do.
“That’s a very nice castle,” I say in Russian, studying the carefully assembled building blocks in front of me. Though Slava’s English skills are rapidly improving under Chloe’s tutelage, he’s far from fluent in the language of our adopted country. “Did it take you long to build it?”
