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“Da, ya lyublyu risovat',” Nikolai says. I squeeze his shoulder gently.
“English, Niko.” The sooner he becomes fluent, the sooner he’ll blend into the world we’ve escaped to. I turn back to Scarlett. “Yes, Niko likes drawing,” I translate for her. “Come, let us take you to his study. He can show you his things there.”
He looks up at her curiously as she reaches for his hand. I pause, waiting to see how he handles it, surprised when he slips his fingers into hers.
It warms me. It’s been too long since my child connected with anyone but me.
“It’s this way,” he says, heading to the hallway. I fall in step behind them, watching as he tips his small dark head up to talk to her. “Papa and I come here every morning,” he tells her.
“And your Papa doesn’t plan to join you here anymore?” she asks, casting a look over her shoulder at me.
“When I can. But my business dealings have become…complicated,” I respond. It’s none of her business. “I will have less time to spend with Nikolai.” I don’t like it, but I have no option. I can’t sit here like a trapped animal. But that is a matter for another day. I indicate the door ahead of us.
“Here is where you will help Niko with his studies,” I say as I push the door open. The place is not like the rest of the house. I wanted this place to be comfortable for him. A child’s room. Not that I’ve had much experience in such things. My own childhood was brief. My path was carefully plotted to turn me into the man I became.
A killer.
I want more for my son.
“This is lovely,” Scarlett says, looking around the bright, spacious room. There’s a wide work desk in the center that’s cluttered with books and art equipment.
“Nikolai has a very good eye,” I realize I’m boasting again. What father wouldn’t? She raises an eyebrow at me before turning back to Niko.
“Can you show me what you’ve been working on, little man?” she asks, gesturing towards the drawings scattered across the table.
“Okay,” he nods, carefully selecting one and holding it up for her to see. The drawing is incredibly detailed, showing a level of skill beyond his years. At least, I’m certain that it is. He’s a Ulianov, after all.
“Wow, this is amazing, Nikolai,” she says. “Have you always been into drawing?”
“Da,” he answers, then glances at me. “I like to draw things from my dreams.”
“Your dreams?” she repeats. “That’s amazing, Niko.”
He smiles shyly, picking up a page and passing it to her.
“Is this an angel?” she asks, examining the sweeps of gold on the paper. He looks at me.
“Yes, an angel,” he responds. An angel with dark hair. I’ve never discouraged him from drawing pictures of his mother. It eases my guilt at sharing so little about her with him.
“Your dreams tell stories,” Scarlett remarks as she examines the drawing as if it’s a true work of art. To me, it is. “That’s really special, Nikolai.”
“Thank you, Miss Scarlett.” He nods solemnly, then glances at me, as if looking for approval. I nod back at him and wink. He’s doing well.
“You will come back here after breakfast,” I tell her. “You and Nikolai can go over some of his lessons, and later I will show you around the grounds.”
“The grounds?” She slants a look at me. “Aren’t you worried I might…?”
“Run off?” I counter. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not?” Her eyes narrow.
“Because I love the thrill of the hunt.” My voice is low and dangerous. And maybe something more.
“Hunt!” she scoffs. Her tone is rebellious once more. She’s obviously been on her best behavior for my son, which is good. It needs to stay that way. Niko’s brow has furrowed as he looks from her to me.
“Hunt, Papa?” he asks. “You mean like rabbits?”
“Perhaps, son,” I don’t look at him as I speak. “Perhaps I’ll hunt a little rabbit.”
