Page 8 of Possessive Vows

I don a fresh all-black suit, complete with a bulletproof vest under my coat, and slip the bandages into my pocket before I check my weapons, slam the trunk closed, and slide behind the wheel. After checking my reflection in the rearview mirror, I shift the car into drive and take the bumpy single lane road toward the nearest town. Once I hit the main road, I settle deeper into my seat and push the gas pedal to the floor.

Four hours and one stop to refuel later, I pull up to my family manor. I toss the keys to my attendant and get halfway up the stairs before the front door opens.

“Papa, you are home!” Maksim exclaims.

His joy warms my heart. I scowl even as I open my arms, prepared for his enthusiastic greeting even though he should show better control at six years old.

Not long ago, I feared I would never see his smile again.

His golden curls bounce atop his head as he launches himself down the stairs at me. I catch him and cherish his slight weight, knowing all too soon he’ll be too big to carry.

“Maksim! You’ll bring dishonor to the entire family if you cannot behave.”

Artur’s childlike timbre does not match his stern tone as he repeats the words my father spoke not long ago as he exiled Feliks. I step onto the front landing and set Maksim on his feet next to his older brother.

Both sets of tiny shoulders curl forward as I cross my arms over my chest and don a stony expression, reminding them of their misdeeds, but when I deepen my scowl, Artur straightens his spine and lifts his chin. Maksim follows his older brother’s lead.

Raven hair in a lopsided ponytail and wide blue eyes peek out from behind Artur. A tiny, younger version of my late wife, Zoya’s features send pain through my soul. The fist blocking the bottom half of her face as she sucks her thumb never leaves. In her other arm, she hugs a small stuffed animal to her chest.

She looks me over with wary eyes before ducking back behind her brother.

I long to hear her voice, but she hasn’t made a single sound since Anastasia died a year ago.

Funneling my emotions deep into my chest, I meet my older son’s eyes and let him feel my displeasure.

“You scold your brother, Artur, but you still have much to learn,” I say.

“I did nothing wrong! That evil woman brushed Zoya’s hair too hard and made her cry. She could not stay here,Papa,” he hisses.

I hide the softening of my heart with a scowl. My eldest carries many responsibilities on his growing shoulders but lacks the experience and the maturity to see the broader picture.

I have failed him.

“Come here, Zoya,” I command.

She peeks out from behind her brother and studies me for a moment before shuffling out to stand beside him. With her thumb in her mouth and her stuffed animal clenched to her chest, she watches me with wary eyes. I lower myself into a squat and point at the space in front of me.

“Stand tall,moya docha. Come to me,” I say.

I will never raise a hand to Anastasia’s cherished babes, but physical affection isn’t something I can give. The filth and power I carry asubiytsafor the family prevents me from coddling them. I’ve created too much darkness and seen too much of the brutal side of humanity to infect my children while they are so young.

Zoya looks up at Artur. He guides her forward with a hand on her back. Her loose ponytail flops lower on her head.

My patience never wavers as she puts one chubby leg in front of the other and stands hesitantly in front of me.

I study her round face and clear eyes before brushing her hair back and gently lifting her sleeves to check her arms for bruises, mindful of her grip on her doll. When I turn her around, she cranes her neck to keep watching me, and I note her lack of pain as she twists. I run my hand down her back and pat her bottom, checking her training pants for wetness, then lift her skirt just enough to check her legs for bruises before quirking an eyebrow at her mismatched socks and her shoes on the wrong feet.

I turn her back around and hold my hand out, palm up. She looks between my face and my hand a few times.

“Give me your hand, Zoya.”

She tightens her hug on her stuffed animal.

“I will not take your doll,kroschka. Let me see your fingers,” I say.

She looks behind her as though she needs support from her brothers before she tucks her doll under her other arm, never removing her thumb from her mouth, and places her tiny hand onto my palm. Her pudgy fingers fill me with wonder, but guilt tightens my chest as I realize her nails need a trim.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” I ask.

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