Page 127 of Single Mom's Daddies
“Because he refuses to wear sunscreen. Always has,” Olenna mutters. “And because he’s an idiot.”
I glance at the screen again. “I would ask how you found this, but you’d be insulted.”
“You’re learning,” she says, pocketing the phone. Then she walks out without another word.
An hour later, a delivery man shows up at the front gate. Oversized crate. Signature required. No return address.
I pry the crate open in the gallery, expecting something decent. Tasteful. Even the last one she sent—intentionally ugly—hadbalance.
This one?
Four orange blobs. Not even shaped blobs. Like someone dipped a fist in paint and threw it onto the canvas. They float in the center, surrounded by that signature gold-and-blue filigree. The frame is beautiful. The subject is…insulting.
It’s hideous. I hang it anyway. Because she signed it “For my favorite nephew.” And I know that’s as close to love as Olenna ever puts in writing.
The painting hangs in my office now—four searing orange blobs, outlined in chaotic smudges like heat maps of a family argument. But the corners…the corners are pure Svet. Gold leaf, detailed curls, tiny strokes of cobalt and lapis. I imagine her humming to herself while doing it, thinking she’s being hilarious.
And honestly? She is.
Victor walked by it earlier and paused for a full minute in complete silence. Then said, “If it weren’t so ugly, I’d think it was mocking me.”
Nikolai stared too. “Are we the blobs? I call the small one. The one with rage.”
I don’t want to ask Olenna if we’re the blobs. I prefer not to interpret the painting. For once, I don’t want all the answers.
In the afternoon, it’s quiet again. The kids are down for their naps, Ivy curled up in a sunbeam on a pink-and-purple sleeping bag she dragged into the corner of the nursery. The others gave up trying to make her sleep in her actual bed hours ago. Saffron kissed her forehead, smoothed her curls back, and backed out of the room like she was escaping a temple. I watched from the hall.
She moves differently now. More at ease. More sure of her place. Like she’s finally convinced herself this isreal. That we want her here.
That she belongs. I sure as hell hope that’s what’s going on in her head.
I find her in the kitchen, barefoot, sipping iced tea, wearing one of my T-shirts knotted over a pair of cotton shorts that hug her hips just enough to drive me out of my goddamn mind.
She looks up at me, one eyebrow lifted. “What?”
“Come with me.”
I don’t give her time to ask where. I just take the glass out of her hand, set it on the counter, and scoop her up into my arms. She squeaks, laughing softly.
“Roman—”
But I’m already carrying her up the stairs. Because I need her.
Not just to fuck, not just to touch—but to claim, to ground, to burn the aftershocks of the past few weeks out of both of us. Something that belongs only to us. I kick the bedroom door closed. No others allowed. Not this time.
Saffron’s still in my arms, but her hands have already moved to my shoulders, fingers curling in the collar of my shirt like she doesn’t want to let go. I don’t want her to either.
I lower her slowly onto the mattress, letting her slide down the front of my body, and the way she arches into me drives every thought from my head that isn’t her. The room is dim, the curtains drawn. The shadows wrap around us like velvet. Outside, the world is still spinning, still healing. But in here, we are whole.
I lean over her, hands on either side of her face. “You good?”
“Better every second. You?”
I answer her with a kiss. It starts slow. My lips pressing to hers, firm and deep. Her mouth parts beneath mine, eager, warm, tasting faintly of sugar and lemon. Her fingers slide up into my hair, nails scratching gently at my scalp. I groan against her mouth.
My hand trails down the front of her shirt—myshirt—and lifts the hem. She raises her hips and lets me pull it over her head. She’s bare underneath.
Perfect.
