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“Because I’m weak?”
I want to challenge his perception of me. I want him to think I’m tough and can handle anything. But the truth is, he’s probably right. I can’t even watch a cheesy slasher movie without covering my eyes every time the knife comes out.
“No. Because you’renormal.” He looks up at me, and in that moment, I feel more naked than I have all night. The way he’s seeing me sends goosebumps racing up and down my arms. “Not everyone can be what I am. Not everyone should. I was born for it.”
“What about Benjamin?”
His eyes harden. “What about him?”
“He’s your heir, right? You expect him to take over for you. But what if… what if he’s normal?”
Timofey shakes his head. “I’ll train him. I’ll teach him how to handle it. He’ll be strong.”
“You really think you’ll be able to run the Bratvaandraise him? Parenting isn’t easy.”
“Nothing worth doing in life is easy,” he growls.
I don’t want to press Timofey too hard. I’ve worked with enough foster kids in my life to know that they can shut down if I’m too heavy-handed. So I lower my head and speak softly. “Like giving Benjamin up to people who could give him a normal life? That wouldn’t be easy. It might be the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”
“If you think an emotional goodbye is the hardest thing I could ever go through, then you really don’t know a single fucking thing about my life.”
Maybe he’s right—there’s so much I don’t know about Timofey Viktorov. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I want to ask him about Emily. How did it feel when she was murdered? Did he cry? Did he shed even a single tear?
But I keep the question locked up tight.
“I’m not raising Benjamin because it would be too hard to say goodbye,” he continues. “If I didn’t want to care for him, he would have been gone within the hour. He’s here because I want him here. That is reason enough. I’ll be his father because I want to be. And if I want it, I’ll succeed.”
I exhale in frustration. “How? You just told me you can’t even let people know Benjamin exists because it would put him in danger. Your enemies want to kill him.”
“And you were attacked outside of your office by a drunk, angry parent,” he fires back. “Does that mean you can’t have children?”
“That’s not the same thing. That guy had too much to drink and was upset. He isn’t a murderer. The people you interact with are way more dangerous.”
“There is nothing more dangerous than a parent on the brink of losing their kids,” he says matter-of-factly. “Which makes me the most dangerous man in the world.”
I open my mouth to say something. Anything.
But I can’t argue with that.
Even if I wanted to, I don’t have the energy. Timofey was wrong: he said I just needed to relax, but I really am exhausted. My body—physically and mentally—is spent. Being around him is like living atop a minefield. There’s danger around every corner, and it never, ever ends.
“Benjamin’s mother must have been special if you’re willing to raise him on your own,” I remark.
I study Timofey’s face for any sign of weakness. For any hint as to how he feels about the mysterious woman who gave birth to Benjamin.
His mouth tightens and his finger drums on the side of his glass.
On anyone else, it would mean nothing. On Timofey, it’s like a flashing neon sign:Weakness this way! Emotional pain, sharp and fresh!
I thought it would feel good to see him feelsomething. Remembering he’s a human being and not some programmed killer robot on a mission to destroy me is difficult sometimes. When I catch a glimpse of his beating heart, it makes it easier to empathize with him.
Instead, my own troublesome feelings rise up.
What must this woman be like for Timofey to care about her? How could anyone else ever compete?
“Things are rarely that simple,” he murmurs.
“Love never is.”
