Page 48 of Salvation

The simple statement hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I couldn’t immediately process. I sat up beside her, careful not to touch her yet, sensing her need for space.

“Can’t?” I repeated, trying to understand.

Her hands trembled visibly now, and her breathing had grown shallow, almost panting. She still wouldn’t meet my eyes, her gaze fixed on her own hands as they twisted the sheet into knots.

“Before they sent me to the boarding school,” she began, each word seemingly dragged from somewhere deep and painful, “the Bratva… they made sure I would never…” She swallowed hard, her throat working against emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “They were doing their best to wipe out my family’s bloodline. If my sister hadn’t managed to get away, they’d have done the same to her.”

The meaning of her words hit me like a physical blow to the chest, momentarily robbing me of breath. Horror, then rage, then a grief so profound it had no name surged through me in rapid succession. Rage won out first -- white-hot and vicious, directed at people I’d never met but suddenly wanted to destroy with my bare hands. Men who’d taken a young girl -- a child -- and violated her in the most fundamental way possible.

“Jesus Christ, Yulia.” My voice came out rougher than intended, and I saw her flinch slightly at the intensity. I took a deliberate breath, tamping down the fury that would only make this harder for her. “Who --”

“It doesn’t matter who,” she interrupted, still not looking at me. “It was a long time ago. Before you found me.”

The rage subsided, replaced by an ache that seemed to emanate from my very bones. This explained so much -- her nightmares in those early years, the way she’d flinched at sudden movements. I’d attributed it all to the trauma at the boarding school, never suspecting there had been earlier, deeper wounds.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly, no accusation in the question, just a need to understand.

“It wasn’t relevant to our arrangement,” she answered, a hint of the old formality creeping back into her voice -- a defense mechanism I recognized. “And later… I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

Her eyes finally met mine, swimming with unshed tears. “That it would change how you saw me. That it would matter once we…” She gestured vaguely between us, indicating our new relationship.

The protective instinct that had defined my feelings for her from the beginning surged forward, overwhelming everything else. I reached for her slowly, telegraphing my movements, giving her every opportunity to pull away. When she didn’t, I gathered her gently into my arms, sheet and all, cradling her against my chest.

“Nothing changes how I see you,” I told her, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “Nothing.”

Her body remained tense within my embrace. “But what about children? You’ve been such a good father to Clover. Don’t you want more kids? Your own biological children?”

The question made me pause, forcing me to examine feelings I hadn’t fully explored. I’d never specifically thought about having more children -- my focus had always been on Clover, on the club, on keeping Yulia safe. But the idea that the choice had been violently taken from her, from us, before we’d even met… that cut deeper than I’d expected.

“I have everything I need,” I finally said, the words simple but absolutely true. “You and Clover -- you’re my family. That’s all that matters to me.”

She pulled back enough to search my face, looking for any sign of insincerity or disappointment. “I feel like I’ve failed you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “What if it causes problems later? What if you change your mind?”

I cupped her face between my hands, forcing her to hold my gaze. “Listen to me. You haven’t failed anyone. You survived. You built a life. You’ve been an amazing mother to Clover.” I brushed away a tear that had escaped to track down her cheek. “And I’m not going to change my mind about you. Ever.”

The certainty in my voice seemed to reach her, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against mine, her eyes closing briefly.

“We’ll face whatever comes together,” I promised her, my thumbs stroking gently along her cheekbones. “Just like we always have.”

She nodded slightly, not fully convinced perhaps, but willing to try. I eased us both back down onto the mattress, keeping her wrapped securely in my arms, her head tucked beneath my chin. We lay like that for a long time, not speaking, just breathing together. Her body gradually relaxed against mine again, though I could feel her mind still working, processing what this revelation meant for us.

My own thoughts churned beneath the surface calm. There was grief there, unexpected but real -- not for myself, but for her, for what had been taken from her without consent or warning. For the choices stolen before she was old enough to understand what they meant. And yes, perhaps a small mourning for possibilities that would never be. But alongside that grief was a bone-deep certainty that she was enough. She had always been enough.

The afternoon sun continued its slow journey across our bed, indifferent to the secrets we’d shared, the wounds we’d exposed. And through it all, we held each other -- bodies intertwined, hearts beating in sync -- processing in silence what it meant to build a future on foundations that had been altered before we’d ever met.

Chapter Thirteen

Salvation

I steered the truck around another bend in the forest road, the tires crunching over fallen pine needles and gravel. Beside me, Yulia gazed out the window, her profile softened by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. In the rearview mirror, I caught glimpses of Clover in the back seat, headphones on, her fingers tapping against her knee to some silent rhythm. My family.

“How much farther?” Yulia asked, her accent slightly more pronounced in the quiet of the truck cabin. Her left hand rested on her thigh, the rose-gold ring catching light every time we passed through a break in the canopy.

“About ten minutes,” I said, reaching over to cover her hand with mine. “The turn-off is easy to miss. Beast said to look for the lightning-struck pine just past mile marker sixteen.”

Yulia’s fingers curled around mine, the simple contact sending warmth up my arm. After eleven years of careful distance, these casual touches still felt new, almost illicit -- a pleasure I was only beginning to allow myself.

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