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She looks at me. Her smile turns even brighter as she bounces on her feet, anxious to answer for me.
I shake my head in honest confusion. “No.”
“It’s a face, Nikolai.” She turns back to the painting. “It’s abstract, but the curve is a smile, the two dots are the nostrils, and the squiggly line is the brow and the eyes.” She turns to me again. “See it now?” she asks.
I blink. “Now that you’ve pointed it out, I can’t unsee it.” I look at Eden, once again amazed by her insights. “Incredible.”
“Isn’t it?” she asks, turning toward me.
“I meant you,” I reply.
The cautiousness returns instantly. Eden’s hands clasp behind her back as she glances at the floor. The shade of lipstick is new. At least, it’s a shade that I don’t recognize on her. She senses me staring, and her eyes slowly lift to gaze at me.
We’re standing in my gallery, surrounded by masterpieces that speak volumes, but I want to knowherstory and nothing else.
“Tell me more about growing up with your father,” I ask softly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She hesitates, her gaze flitting across the room, searching for the right words.
“It wasn’t easy,” she admits. “My father was suffocating. He never trusted me to do what I wanted to do.”
“I realize now it wasn’t my fault. Books and art were my escape.” She swallows, her eyes shining. “I could lose myself in the stories that art tells or immerse my emotions into the colors and shapes on a canvas. I had a way to escape mentally, and art made me want to connect with the world.”
“Art will do that,” I agree, feeling the connection with Eden strengthen as we stare at the upside-down painting.
In a way, both of us found solace in art—a safe refuge from the storm of losses around us. I move closer, and Eden doesn’t back away as her eyes hold my gaze.
“I thought I’d find that in New York,” Her smile is small but genuine, making something inside me ache.
“When I look at a painting,” I tell her. “It allows me to slip away. But then I screwed it up.”
Eden reaches for my hand and holds it. “You can’t control what other people do.”
For some reason, she’s trying to make me feel better. I accept her kindness with grace. Larissa gives me advice and encouragement, which I appreciate but don’t need. And Eden tries to give me tenderness and understanding that I don’t deserve—like a mouse willing to pluck a thorn out of a lion’s paw.
“I’ve ruined enough dreams,” I tell her quietly. “Promise you’ll try to trust me, Eden. Promise that you won’t try to run away.”
“I can’t promise you that, Nikolai,” she replies honestly, whispering. “Because the truth is, I don’t belong to you.” Her eyes lock onto mine with newfound determination. “I’m not a piece of art for you to collect and hang up in a gallery. I’m a person, and I will always want to be free.”
And in that moment, I am struck by how fiercely I want to protect her—not just from her traitor father, but from a world she doesn’t even understand.
From the Bratva.
And from herself.
“You will marry me,” I finally say. “And I will be the one to protect you as I promised.”
She glances over at me. “Because the Bratva is family, and you protect family?”
“Exactly,” I tell her.
“So, will that protection extend to your father-in-law?” she asks pointedly. “The alleged traitor?”
Clever girl. Eden watches me with those big eyes, and for a moment, I almost believe she’s as innocent as she acts.
“What aren’t you telling me, Eden?” I ask. “What secrets are you still holding close to your heart?”
“I told you all of my secrets, Nikolai,” she replies tersely.
