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Her face screws up in a confused frown. “Taylor…has achild?” Sucking in a breath, she stumbles a step backward. “Taylor. My Taylor…is a mom?”
“His name is Adam. He’s four. He’s a sweet kid.”
Her eyes connect with mine. “A nephew…and he’s four? Then—shit—that means she would have gotten pregnant pretty soon after she left that night with Dad. Is she—shit!—is she married? Where’s his father?”
I’m tempted. I’m so tempted that the words are on the tip of my tongue. It feels wrong, completely unnatural to stand there and not claim him as my own.
Sad. Weak. Fucking pathetic.
But I promised Taylor. I don’t need to give her any more reasons to alienate me.
“That’s your sister’s story to tell,” is the best response I can think of. It’ll have to do.
Celine frowns, her eyes darting from side to side. “This is…a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, turning away from her.
I feel her fidgeting behind me. The pregnant silence of someone who’s about to broach a topic I’d rather leave for later—or, better yet, for never.
“Have you thought about it?” Her voice goes cold to hide the hurt underneath. “The request I made?”
“Celine, I—”
“Five years, Ilarion,” she snaps. “Five years and I’ve only ever asked you for one thing.”
“Other than giving your father immunity,” I point out.
She stops short and her eyes go wide. “Are you saying it’s either-or? It’s one or the other?”
I grit my teeth. “I’m saying there’s only so far I can bend before I break.”
“Funny,” she says. “I could say the same thing myself.” She takes a step forward and her eyes blaze with the kind of fight that she’s acquired over the years. Living among a Bratva can do that to a person. “My little sister is a mother, Ilarion. She’s experienced more of life than I have. At this point, what do I have to show for myself? A handful of charities, endless parties and galas…”
“You love what you do.”
“I had to learn to love it; it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. It’s not like you let me in, the way you do with Mila and Dima. I’m still an outsider, kept on the fringe of things. Included, but not really.”
“Celine—”
“Yes, I do love what I do. But it’s not enough, Ilarion. You know that. I want more.”
“Now’s not the time.”
“When is?” she presses. “Just tell me when. If I have a timeline, then at least I have some hope. Something to look forward to. But every time I bring it up, you avoid the subject. You treat me like I’m some sort of pariah. It would help if I knew why. It would make me feel better if I understood. But I don’t because you refuse to fucking talk to me!”
She’s crossed the threshold from talking to screaming. She’s so worked up that she’s not even aware that her words are bouncing off the walls and filtering out into the hallway.
To unsuspecting ears, maybe.
“You need to calm down.”
“You like saying that to me, don’t you?” she snaps. “I’m not some hysterical woman, Ilarion. I have a right to be angry. I have agoddamn rightto be frustrated.”
There are moments when I look at Celine and I hate myself. It’s the same thing I used to feel when I saw Mila. That feeling that, despite my best efforts, I’ve fucked up so bad that I can never repair the damage I’ve done.
I walk over to her and cup her face in my hands. She goes still, surprised by the sudden proximity. By the sudden intimacy.
I love her like this, early in the morning when she hasn’t put her face on yet. Her eyes are clear and bright, her face free of foundation and blush. She looks so much younger, so much less haunted by what she’s seen.
