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“I took him to the hospital.”
I tap the folder. “Youlefthim at the hospital. That’s what the case report says. You handed him over to a doctor.”
His jaw clenches. “Yes. Then I changed my mind.”
“You wanted the baby back?”
“Benjamin.”
“What?”
“Benjamin,” he repeats. “That is his name. I wanted Benjamin back..”
“So you assaulted a doctor. The report says you strangled him, actually.”
“Is he dead?” he asks rhetorically, his voice a deep rumble.
“The doctor?” I skim the report again, but surely the man being a murderer would have been mentioned front and center, right? I finally find it at the bottom of page five. “No. He survived.”
Mr. Viktorov nods like that proves his point. “If I’d strangled him, he’d be dead. I simply reminded him how much he likes breathing.”
For a brief second, I’m back in the dark, wet alley. Mr. Viktorov is standing in front of me again, rain dripping down his neck as he looms over my attacker.The only thing you need to know is I’m the man willing to separate your hands from your arms if you touch her again.
He seems to be full of helpful “reminders.”
“Why do you even want the baby? Are you the father?”
“I thought you were here to determine that.”
“I’m here to determine if you should be granted guardianship, Mr. Viktorov. Right now, I’m asking about Benjamin’s birth father.”
“Timofey,” he says.
“But you said—I thought the child’s name was Benjamin.”
He nods. “It is.Myname is Timofey.”
A leftover tremble from my dream this morning settles low in my belly. Hearing a name has never been so intimate. “Oh. Sure. Okay. Timofey.”
“I’m not Benjamin’s biological father,” he continues. “That doesn’t change the fact that he will live with me, and I’ll take care of him.”
“Why?”
“Last I checked, babies need a hand here or there.”
I blow out a breath and a strand of hair that has fallen out of my haphazard ponytail lifts and resettles on my forehead. I wouldn’t be surprised to find steam pouring out of my ears at this point. The man is mashing all of my buttons at the same time.
“I’m asking why a single man like you would want to care for a random baby left on your doorstep? I’ve been a social worker for seven years and this is a first for me.”
“What makes you so sure I’m single?”
The question takes me off-guard. My cheeks heat instantly. “Oh. Well, I—the chart said—I guess it didn’t exactly say. I assumed. There was no mention of anyone else. You’re alone now, so…are you single?”
There’s that flicker of amusement on his face again. It almost gives me hope that the smirking dream version of Timofey isn’t completely out of the question. What I’d give to see that smile in real life.
“I have no need for a partner. I can raise Benjamin on my own just fine.”
It’s an annoying non-answer. Annoying only because I suddenly want to know if there is a woman of the mansion wandering around somewhere. A man like Timofey surely doesn’t go too long without a warm, willing body in his bed.
