Page 21 of Scarlet Chains
Elena stops at a door painted in soft blue and pushes it open. “Here we are.”
The nursery takes my breath away, but not in the way the rest of the house has. This room is beautiful— walls painted insoothing sky blue, with clouds drifting across the ceiling like something from a dream. Toys are arranged in perfect heaps, everything color-coordinated and expensive-looking. A rocking chair sits by the window, upholstered in cream silk that’s probably never been used. It’s a showroom, a perfect Instagram post of what a wealthy baby’s room should look like.
But there’s something cold about it, something that makes my chest tighten. It’s too perfect, too pristine. Like no real baby has ever lived here, just a doll placed for photos.
In the center of it all sits a crib that’s a vision of white lacquer and intricate carvings. And inside…
My heart stops.
A tiny body lies on his stomach, playing with a soft toy, making those sweet baby sounds that seem to echo in the vast, beautiful room. He’s maybe thirteen or fourteen months old, with dark hair that curls at the ends and skin that glows with health.
But it’s his eyes that undo me completely.
When he looks up at the sound of our voices, his gaze finds mine and locks there. For a moment that stretches between heartbeats, everything else fades away— Elena’s artificial warmth, the oppressive wealth of this house, even my own fears about the future. There’s something in his gray eyes, something that reaches straight into my chest and squeezes.
Recognition. That’s the only word for it. Like he’s been waiting for me, like some part of him knew I was coming.
How can someone so small be so heartbreakingly sweet? The thought hits me with surprising force, followed immediately by another one that makes my throat tighten: This tiny little boy is completely alone.
I can see it in the way he plays by himself, in the careful distance Elena maintains as she speaks about him, in the clinical way his father dismissed him as an inconvenience. He’ssurrounded by every luxury money can buy, but he’s starving for the one thing that can’t be purchased.
Love.
He needs love. Desperately.
The maternal instinct that hits me is so fierce and immediate it leaves me breathless. My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach, to the tiny life growing there, and suddenly I understand something fundamental about what it means to protect a child. Not just to feed them and change them and keep them safe, but to love them with every fiber of your being.
This beautiful boy has parents who see him as an obligation, as something to be managed rather than cherished. The thought makes me want to scoop him up right now, to hold him close and whisper that someone in this world thinks he’s precious.
“Hello, sweetheart,” I say softly, stepping closer to the crib.
He stares at me with those impossibly dark eyes, his little fist wrapped around his toy, and I swear I see something pass between us. A connection that defies logic, a feeling that we somehow belong in each other’s lives.
I smile at him, the first genuine smile I’ve felt in weeks, and turn to Elena.
“I think we’ll get along just fine,” I tell her, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything in months.
“Wonderful!” Elena’s perfect smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “You can start tomorrow morning at eight. Oh,” she pauses at the doorway, as if remembering something trivial, “I almost forgot. The boy’s name is Slava.”
Chapter Eight
Osip
The cold liquid burns down my throat, but it does nothing to quiet the storm in my chest.
I stare at the empty glass, watching the last drops cling to the crystal like they’re afraid to let go. Just like I am with her.
Chert voz’mi.
When did I become such a fuckingpizda? Sitting here in my own office, drowning in vodka and memories of soft skin and defiant eyes. This isn’t who I am. I’m Osip Sidorov. I don’t brood. I don’t pine. I take what I want and destroy what stands in my way.
Destroy.
That’s exactly the problem, mudak.
The familiar weight of my Makarov presses against my ribs as I lean back in the leather chair, a reminder of who I really am beneath all this pathetic sentiment. The gun has never failed me. Never left me. Never—
My phone slices through the silence, its shrill ring bouncing off the mahogany-paneled walls of my office. I glance at the screen, and my jaw sets so hard I hear my teeth grind together.
