Page 33 of Unexpected Bratva Baby

“If only Mikhail could see this,” I murmur, missing him. His absence weighs on me, but I push aside the feeling . I’m determined to make the most of this trip, with or without him. It’s something I could never afford on my salary, and the few times I’ve visited before were on a budget and mostly to see my parents’ relations.

I approach the castle entrance, mind swirling with visions of fierce clan battles and regal ceremonies, and collide with something solid. My camera swings wildly on its strap, and I stumble backward.

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” says a melodic voice. I look up to see a tall, athletically built blonde woman steadying me with a firm grip. Her striking blue eyes crinkle with concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I say, straightening my jacket. “Just got a bit lost in thought. The hazards of being a tourist, I suppose.”

The woman laughs, a warm, rich sound that instantly puts me at ease. “I know the feeling. I’m Anastasia, by the way, but please, call me Nastya.”

“Phoebe,” I say, shaking her outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, Nastya.”

“Likewise. Are you here exploring on your own?”

I nod, ignoring the twinge of disappointment that Mikhail isn’t here to share this with me. “Yeah, just me and my camera. You?”

“Same,” she says. “There’s something freeing about solo travel, isn’t there? Though I must admit, I wouldn’t mind some company while exploring the castle. Care to join forces?”

Her offer catches me off-guard, but in a good way. There’s something about Nastya that feels familiar, almost comforting. Perhaps it’s the Russian accent, which reminds me of Mikhail. “That sounds great, actually. I’d love to.”

We enter the castle grounds, and she smiles with genuine excitement. “I’ve always been fascinated by Scottish history. The clans, the battles, the legends—it’s all so rich and dramatic.”

“Me too.” I’m pleasantly surprised by our shared interest. “My family has Scottish roots, and I grew up hearing stories about our ancestors. It’s part of why I wanted to come here so badly.”

We pause at a placard detailing the castle’s tumultuous past. Nastya reads it intently, her brow wrinkled in concentration. “It’s amazing to think of all the history these walls have seen. Centuries of triumph and tragedy, all etched into the very stone.”

I nod, running my hand along the cool, rough surface of a nearby wall. “It’s like you can almost feel the echoes of the past,” I say softly. “All those lives, all those stories...”

Nastya gives me a knowing smile. “You sound like a storyteller yourself, Phoebe. Do you write?”

“Oh, no.” I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m more of a hands-on creator. I teach Scottish cooking classes back home in Miami. It’s my way of connecting with my heritage and sharing it with others, and I’d like to open a Scottish cultural center someday.”

“That’s wonderful,” she says with clear interest. “I’d love to hear more about that. What’s your favorite Scottish dish to make?”

As we continue our tour of the castle, I open up to Nastya in a way I rarely do with strangers. There’s something about her warm demeanor and genuine curiosity that puts me at ease. We swap stories and observations, our laughter echoing off the ancient stones.

I gasp when we reach a high parapet. “Oh, look at this view.” The city of Edinburgh spreads out before us, a patchwork of old and new, all bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. I raise my camera, trying to capture the breathtaking panorama.

Nastya steps back, giving me space to work. “You’ve got quite an eye,” she says, watching me adjust my settings. “How long have you been into photography?”

“It’s just a hobby.” I lower the camera. “I’ve always loved capturing moments, you know? Trying to freeze a little bit of beauty or emotion in time.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I can see that passion in your work. It reminds me of...well, never mind.” A shadow passes over her face, so quickly I almost miss it.

“What is it?” I ask, curious about the sudden shift in her mood.

Nastya hesitates, then shakes her head with a small smile. “It’s nothing. Just...your enthusiasm reminds me of someone I used to know. She had that same fire in her eyes when she talked about her passions.”

There’s a story there, I can tell, but I don’t push. Instead, I gesture toward a nearby bench. “Want to sit for a bit? My feet could use a break, and I’d love to hear more about what brought you to Scotland.”

We settle onto the worn wooden seat, and her posture relaxes slightly. “It’s a bit of a long story. I grew up in Russia, but I’ve always been drawn to other cultures and histories. Scotland, with its fierce pride and rich traditions, has always fascinated me.” She looks sad for a moment again. “The woman I mentioned, Ivanna…” She sighs. “We used to talk about all the places we’d travel when she got better.” Her eyelids close for a moment, and a spasm of pain crosses her features before they open again. “The illness was stronger than our plans.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m sure she would have enjoyed being here with you.”

Her smile is slightly forced, but she nods. “Scotland wasn’t on our list, but she would have loved this. We would have loved experiencing it together.”

“I can relate to that.” I nod, thinking of Mikhail, and how I’m traveling alone now. Changing the subject slightly, since I don’t want to end up depressed, and I doubt she does either, I say, “There’s something about this place that just pulls you in, isn’t there?”

“Exactly. It’s like… Oh, how do I explain it?” She pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s like the land itself has a soul. You can feel it in the mist on the moors, and in the ancient stones of places like this.”

---