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I can’t imagine a man like that being kind to a child… and the way Slava acted around Nikolai at first, all closed off and afraid, raised all sorts of suspicions for us.
“Why did Slava go live with your father then?” I ask, and though I try my best to keep my voice level, the question comes out like an accusation. “Was there no one else who could’ve taken him in after Ksenia’s accident?”
Like, say, one of his uncles—not that there’s any guarantee that they would’ve been kind to the child. Slava didn’t act like he was afraid of his “Uncle Lyosha” during the armed standoff between Alexei and my brother, but I can hardly draw conclusions about their relationship from that brief interaction.
If I weren’t paying such close attention, I might’ve missed it—a flicker of something so cold and dark behind Alexei’s expressionless façade that my blood chills in my veins.
“Our father is dying,” he says evenly. “Pancreatic cancer, as you might’ve heard.”
I blink. I haven’t heard. Why would I have—
“Your brothers know. They hacked into his clinic’s records,” Alexei says, answering my unspoken question. His eyes glitter harshly. “They didn’t tell you?”
I shake my head, stunned. How long have they known? And why wouldn’t they tell me? Unless… it was another case of my brothers treating me like a child, trying to shield me from any and all stress—just like when they didn’t tell me that Alexei was in the United States, looking for me and Slava. They probably figured anything to do with the Leonovs could trigger another one of my headaches.
“I… I’m sorry.” The words emerge on autopilot.
Alexei lets out a rough bark of laughter. “No, you’re not.”
He’s right. I’m not. If anyone deserves this fate, it’s Boris Leonov. Which is why the peculiar ache in my chest doesn’t make any sense. “So is that why Slava—”
“Went to live with him after Ksenia’s death?” Ruslan interjects. His gray eyes glint with the same harsh light as Alexei’s. “You guessed it. It was our father’s dying wish: to get to know his grandson better.”
“A wish we should’ve never granted,” Alexei says tersely, and as I look from brother to brother, I realize I’m not the only one who believes that Boris Leonov deserves his suffering.
It’s written clear as day on Alexei and Ruslan’s faces.
I want to press further, to find out why they feel this way, but they won’t answer those questions, I can tell. If the two men’s expressions were closed off before, it’s nothing compared to the way they are now—each feature as cold and hard as if carved from ice. Especially Alexei’s.
“How long does your father have?” I ask quietly, looking at my husband. I shouldn’t feel any sympathy for him, but that’s what the ache in my chest is. I recognize it now, the dull, squeezing pain that reminds me of the way I felt when I learned about Ksenia’s fatal accident.
It’s as if Alexei’s loss, his grief, were mine—and in the case of his father, also the dark anger underlying it.
The same anger I feel each time I think about my father.
“Weeks,” Ruslan answers before Alexei gets a chance. “Possibly less. The cancer has already spread into every vital organ. The doctors say it’s a miracle he’s still alive.”
My gaze is trained on Alexei as Ruslan speaks, so I see the tiny, almost imperceptible way he stiffens at the last sentence. My chest squeezes tighter. However much of a monster Boris Leonov may be, he’s still Alexei’s father—just like the monster who sired me was mine.
Despite everything, to this day, there’s a tiny part of me that longs for the Papa of my childhood, the man who once gave me a ride on his shoulders and bought me birthday cake when Mama wouldn’t. Those memories, sparse as they are, shine brightly in my mind—especially since the rest of the time, my father was indifferent to me at best.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time, I mean it. I don’t know for sure if Alexei has those rare, bright memories of his father, but I suspect he does.
It’s highly probable that when it comes to our families and their fucked-up-ness, we have much in common.
At my words, something moves over Alexei’s face, the hard, expressionless mask cracking for a moment. “Thank you, Alinyonok,” he says softly and lays his hand over mine, blanketing me with its warmth and strength… with the comforting illusion that we belong together.
Except we don’t. We never have.
He’s inserted himself into my life by deceit and force, and he’s about to do way worse.
Fighting against my every instinct, I yank my hand away, ignoring the way his face tightens as if from a blow—and how the ache in my chest sharpens at the loss of his warmth. Alexei doesn’t need my sympathy. This urge to comfort him, to take away his pain—it’s as irrational as it is dangerous. We don’t belong together just because our families are messed up and I understand what he’s going through. That’s not enough for me to forgive all the awful things he’s done—and plans to do.
